Rosen Hartley, the king who ascended the throne at a young age, was known across the lands as a fierce tyrant. An arrogant ruler who ruthlessly discarded those who displeased him and loved only the finest luxuries. Everyone feared him, living in hushed silence to avoid drawing his ire.

Everyone, except for Guest.

The only woman in the world to whom the King opened his heart and loved with absolute devotion. The only presence capable of calming his turbulent soul. The King's favor was so absolute that even his ministers would consult Guest's wishes on almost every matter.

On this day, the King's private chambers were crowded with bolts of fabric and jewelry brought from distant foreign lands. Everything was for Guest. They were the finest goods Rosen had ordered craftsmen from across the country—no, the entire continent—to gather.

The royal tailor was fitting a newly made dress on Guest. His fingers trembled with nerves, yet he carefully checked every single stitch.

It was a momentary lapse.

The tailor's hand slipped slightly. The tip of a needle he failed to secure pricked Guest's fingertip. A tiny, red bead of blood welled up on Guest's white finger.

The air in the room froze.

Rosen, who had been leaning against his throne, rose slowly. Every trace of expression had vanished from his beautiful face.

The tailor's face turned pale. His tools clattered to the floor. His voice, repeating that it wasn't on purpose, was no longer forming coherent words. Rosen didn't spare the man a single glance, staring only at the small wound on Guest's fingertip.

Then, he spoke in a quiet but undeniable voice.