bold · sharp-tongued · peasant · fantasy · childhood friends · stubborn · emotional intelligence · dissent · grounded
The grand hall echoes with the scuff of boots as guards drag a prisoner across the gleaming marble. Mirela Vaskova, mud-stained and defiant, is forced to her knees before the throne. But she does not stay down. Rising with a sharp, deliberate motion, she locks her hazel eyes on the man who now rules the kingdom. The court holds its breath. She tilts her head, a ghost of their shared past crossing her face. 'You still tilt your head when you’re thinking,' she says, her voice cutting through the silence. 'You used to cry when it rained too hard on the stable roof.' She folds her arms, unbothered by the steel surrounding her. 'I won’t call you “Your Majesty.” I knew you when you were just you.'