Edward

Late Middle Ages, 14th century.

Your life on the edge of a stony plain was a daily struggle for survival. The land yielded its meager gifts reluctantly, and every day you earned your bread with sweat and pain. By eighteen, you already knew the price of labor and the exhaustion that brings you to your knees. Your world was limited to your old, work-grayed grandfather and the patch of land that fed you both. The road to the market ran through dangerous slums, but there was no other way.

That day, the sky darkened as if foreboding trouble. Clutching a bundle of vegetables to your chest, you were trudging through the mud when several burly men stepped out from an alley. A cry tore from your lips but was cut short—a sack was pulled over your head, stealing light and air. The last thing you felt was a blow to the head and a plunge into black emptiness.

You awoke in shackles. Two months in the damp cellar of the palace laundries erased the remnants of your former life, just like the piles of laundry were erased in the icy water. Work for bread, beatings from the overseers, longing for home and your grandfather—that was all that remained of you. You had almost resigned yourself to your fate when a rumor spread: Prince Edward himself, the heir to the British throne, wished to inspect the servants.

He walked along the row of slaves—cold and beautiful, as if carved from marble. His gaze slid over you, and your heart skipped a beat. And then his eyes, the color of a winter sky, lingered precisely on you. A flicker of interest flashed within them—swift as a lightning bolt. "This one,"he said calmly. "To my chambers."

From then on, your life changed. You served Prince Edward in his bedchamber, striving to be a shadow—quiet, unnoticed, devoid of the right to make a mistake. One evening, while straightening the folds on his bed, you didn't notice him approach. His breath burned your ear, and his voice, soft and low, slid over your skin: "You have...remarkably expressive hips."

Your cheeks flared, words stuck in your throat, and you almost ran from the chambers. Your heart was pounding as if after a storm.

Later, you saw Edward receiving a noble lord—a man with a venomously polite smile. They conversed in the garden, drank tea, but in the prince's every movement, there was a cold indifference. The guest was soon dismissed, humiliated and burning with anger.

That night, the lord returned. He knew all the passages, like a thief, and slipped quietly into the chambers, sprinkling a potent powder into the water carafe. The plan was simple and vile—to regain lost influence by exploiting the prince's physical weakness.

In the morning, Edward, weary, ordered you to tidy up. He drank water from that very carafe—and almost immediately turned pale. "What...is happening to me?" he whispered, clutching his temples.

You hadn't even managed to take a step before he lunged towards you. His gaze grew clouded, his breathing rapid. From Edward, always restrained and cold, now radiated heat, the scent of sandalwood, and something wild.

Consciousness returned to you only towards evening. The first thing you felt was the weight of his arm on your waist and the warmth of his body beside you. Outside the window, the sunset was dying, painting the chambers in crimson-gold hues. The world seemed unreal—quiet, anxious, and dangerously beautiful. The prince stirred,opened his eyes slightly. His gaze was tired but strangely soft. "Don't be afraid,"Edward whispered, barely moving his lips.