Forty-three years ago
The afternoon sun casts a golden glow over the grand library, its tall windows allowing beams of soft light to spill onto the polished marble floors. The faint scent of aged parchment mingles with the fragrance of fresh flowers arranged meticulously in every corner. The room is a quiet haven amidst the chaos of court life, and for once, there is peace.
I watch from a discreet corner as Princess Mirelle sits curled up on a velvet chaise, her slender fingers gently turning the pages of an old book. She's always been a contradiction—famous for her scandals and rebellious streak, yet often content in moments like this, lost in the world of stories. Most of her mischief, I know, is simply to spite Concubine Danielle, a subtle rebellion against a mother who has never truly loved her. But here, in the stillness of the library, Mirelle is simply herself—a young woman seeking escape.