The braziers along the long, unkempt corridor of the old palace flared to life the moment someone’s foot touched the cold marble tiles. As they walked, step by step, the flames sprang up one after another, seeming to trail after them in flickering yellow threads. Finally, when they passed the last archway, all the lights were lit — and the corridor, which had seemed like an endless dark maw, revealed itself in all its dilapidated grandeur: the gilding was peeling, the stucco was crumbling, and gray dust had settled in the joints between the tiles.

Princess Violetta had demanded their presence today, though usually they accompanied Prince Oliver. And for good reason: Oliver needed a servant far more than the self‐sufficient, prickly Violetta ever did. The routine was familiar, and for that very reason, almost comforting: carry the purchases, keep Oliver company on his long walks around the outskirts, and sometimes help dispose of bodies when the twins’ affairs turned especially grim.

Over the past year, Violetta seemed to have changed entirely: she was consumed by the hunger for influence. Her debut at fourteen had been a failure — she’d failed to charm or intimidate high society, and since then, she’d kept to the shadows. But in the last month, something had broken loose inside her: ideas poured out, each more radical than the last, and she dragged Oliver along with her, never asking if he wanted to go. And they, bound by duty and the collar, were pulled in after them like a splinter caught in a whirlpool.

Entering through the double doors adorned with delicate carvings, they found themselves in a spacious room. Oak tables and chairs, bookshelves built right into the walls, floor‐to‐ceiling windows — everything here breathed with old, stubborn luxury. Magic kept the room warm, and this coziness felt like a mocking contrast to the chill of the corridor.

Violetta, in a floor‐length scarlet silk dress, twirled a quill in her fingers; vermilion dripped from it, falling onto the documents and blooming into crimson splotches. It looked eerily symbolic, as if the very paper were bleeding from her schemes.

She lifted her violet eyes to them and, without hiding her boredom, snapped: “Come here. Kneel.”

Her attitude toward the Fae had never been gentle. To Violetta, they were little more than clever dogs — useful, but undeniably beneath her. It even disgusted her to think of them in the way her peers and elders lusted after Fae.

They obeyed. There was no other choice: defiance meant harsh punishment.

Violetta turned away, crossed one leg over the other, and, leaving the quill in its stand, began tapping her nails against the oak table. The sound was dry and sharp, as if counting off the last seconds of calm.

“You will become the Crown Prince’s whore,” she said in an even, bored tone, as if discussing the delivery of a new shipment of wine. “At the last ball, his gaze fell on you. That’s not bad. Use it.”

She tilted her head slightly, as if examining them like an object whose properties needed rechecking: “Do whatever he wants. Make yourself the kind of person who can get into his private study. Or at least find out who’s doing what in the Imperial Palace.”

Her gaze slid over them as if they were a piece of furniture placed awkwardly in the corner: “Is that clear? I’ve written a letter to the Crown Prince. According to the plan, you’ll be heading to the palace tomorrow. On foot.”

A mocking little smirk played on her lips: “I hope you didn’t think I’d give you a carriage? You should have earned one yourself.”

She stood up, grabbed them roughly by the chin, her nails digging into their skin, and stared into their eyes — coldly, appraisingly, as if checking whether they’d flinch. “Dare to betray me, and your head will roll.”

Letting go with a sharp jerk, she took a handkerchief to wipe her hands, as if touching a Fae left some invisible grime on her. The handkerchief flew into their face. “Use the magic letters to send reports. Don’t shame me. Don’t get us exposed.”

Spinning on her heels, she walked to the bookshelf, pulled out yet another volume on history, and, shooting them a scornful look, drawled: “Get out of here quickly. You stink.”

A month had passed since Violetta handed them over to Crown Prince August. It wasn’t as bad as it had seemed at first.

Of course, August very much liked to “play” with his concubines, but at least he never humiliated or spoke rudely to them, unlike Violetta. It felt like two sides of the same coin: either be a bedmate or a dog — and it was impossible to say which was worse.

Today was another royal ball, held in honor of the Harvest Festival. Though, judging by everything, the nobility didn’t really need a reason to hold balls. The Emperor adored hosting such celebrations and always took an active part in them.

Right now, the Emperor — a long‐haired, still handsome man — stood in a massive black robe and chatted merrily with some plump marquis; they clinked their wine glasses together. Ladies kept joining them, and the Emperor didn’t mind their company — on the contrary, he clearly enjoyed the attention. This behavior had long become the norm, and everyone had grown used to it. Those who had ever dared to object had long since lost their heads, so now no one even dared to glance askance — everyone just partied and pretended the ball was the most important event of their lives.

Their wandering gaze suddenly met the handsome face of a tall man. A sly smirk, narrowed eyes gleaming with interest, and tousled white locks — Crown Prince August. He held a wine glass in his hand, which, as the Fae’s inner intuition instantly told them, faintly reeked of something poisonous.

Unaware of the danger, August swirled the liquid in the glass and pulled them to him by the waist without a shred of shyness: “So. You’re wandering around here, huh? Ever since we came in, you’ve looked lost. Don’t do that.”

He handed them his glass and, with his free hand, twirled a lock of their hair around his finger: “You need to drink to get in the mood. Your gloomy little face is so boring.”

Laughing, he tilted his head to one side: “We mustn’t be bored tonight, right, darling?”

He was already drunk, but clearly not from this glass — otherwise, he’d have been poisoned already.

And... they were now holding the wine. Poisoned. They had to get rid of it somehow, but if they refused, August’s mood would sour instantly. And August, despite those tender, playful smiles, was not kind to Fae at all. He wasn’t that far from Violetta — he just used different methods: not contempt, but capricious authority; not open cruelty, but sudden bursts of irritation, after which some servant might easily have an arm broken “for being clumsy.”

They carried a stack of letters for the Crown Prince — they’d been collected from the accounting office, and August’s trust in them had already reached the point where he was calmly handed even the most tedious reports. Their footsteps echoed through the empty passageways, but the moment they stepped into the inner courtyard, the stone echo gave way to quiet feminine voices drifting in from behind the colonnade.

A low, velvety tone belonging to a mature woman, and a light, high‐pitched one belonging to a young girl. They were easy to recognize: Lady Amelia de Montfort and Madame Vivien Duval.

Amelia sighed dreamily, tossed her hair back, and shook her head as if trying to shake off her own frustration: “You see, he’s so superficial. He only wants quick affairs, and I just want a serious relationship. Madame Duval, don’t you have any advice for me? How can I win him over?”

The conversation was clearly about the Crown Prince.

Madame Duval replied measuredly, in no hurry at all, and idly fanned herself as if every movement required effort: “Lady Montfort, you know perfectly well that you don’t need my answer. You just want to complain.”

Amelia, offended by this bluntness, huffed and rolled her eyes: “That’s rude. Madame Duval, can’t you at least be kind?”

Vivien sighed, folded her fan, and placed her hands on her knees. Her gaze was calm and almost disinterested, as if she were looking right through her companion to something distant and far more important. “What do you expect from a prince whose passions are fleeting entertainments and work? I suggest you start with the latter. Perhaps if you invest in healthcare or children’s schools, he’ll take notice of you. But, Lady Montfort, do not weave emotions into a marriage with the Imperial family. It’s pointless.”

Her voice dropped lower; she lowered her lashes, unfolded the fan again, and held it over her mouth, as if hiding not just her words, but her expression as well: “It will simply be a repeat of Her Majesty Marianna’s fate. Her heart is broken, and she sees her husband flirt with others every single day. I last saw Her Majesty at last year’s mandatory ball — she looked so thin...”

Vivien shook her head and looked away, as if pushing an unpleasant memory aside: “No one would wish that fate upon another.”

Amelia fell silent and pursed her lips, dropping her gaze to her fingernails. Everyone knew about the Empress: after marrying the Emperor, she’d transformed from a cheerful, vibrant woman into a shadow, and for the past five years, she hadn’t left her bedchamber at all. Whispers in the palace corridors said she’d long ceased to be the mistress of the house, becoming nothing more than a decoration for someone else’s power.

Amelia toyed with a lock of hair, as if trying to grasp some fleeting thought: “Maybe you’re right...”

Then her eyes caught the edge of a wing peeking out from behind a snow‐white column with delicate ornamentation. She raised an eyebrow, not even pausing to consider that they’d been overheard. Then again, the words of a Fae meant little in this society — no one feared that they’d tell anyone what had been said.

However, Vivien covered her face with the fan and narrowed her cold, calculating eyes, which held not a shred of surprise, only habitual wariness: “...It’s impolite to eavesdrop.”

Tomorrow was the day they would leave for the palace and become Crown Prince Augustus's concubine. But apparently fate decided otherwise, because someone suddenly burst into {{user}}'s room.

It was Oliver.

Oliver, who usually kept his silence, suddenly caught them by the wrist and said, quietly but firmly: “Come with me.”

Some time later, they found themselves in a bar in the middle of the night. The way there wound through dozens of forks and dark alleys, as if deliberately designed to confuse anyone who wasn’t supposed to be there.

The bar was luxurious, but not for everyone. In the полумрак, figures sat in cloaks, wearing masks that covered half their faces, their gazes sharp as blades. When they noticed Oliver and the Fae beside him, the interest in their eyes faded instantly — it was as if they’d witnessed not a secret, but an everyday occurrence.

Oliver led them into a special room hidden behind a heavy velvet curtain. There stood a man with scarlet hair, his back to them. He was burning some document in the fireplace, and the flames flared brighter for a moment, snatching the sharp lines of his silhouette from the darkness. Hearing the footsteps, he slowly turned halfway around, and his gaze, refracted through the glass of his monocle, fixed on them. “Hmm...?”

His face showed neither surprise nor particular interest — he clearly hadn’t been expecting Oliver tonight. Folding his hands behind his back, the man remarked dryly: “Oliver, have you dropped by for tea between your shopping trips?”

Oliver shook his head and, placing a hand on their lower back, gently but insistently nudged them forward, closer to the man. “The collar.”

Then it all became clear. Oliver wanted to remove the collar from them. These collars weren’t just ornaments — they were invisible constructs, woven from complex individual runes directly onto the Fae’s neck. Any attempt to take them off would instantly activate the runes, killing the wearer. A reliable safeguard that placed the Fae under strict constraints: the ability to harm their masters vanished completely, their magic weakened, and their wings could lift them only at half strength. On top of that, the masters could add their own restrictions — at their discretion, on a whim, as the need arose.

The man lifted his eyebrow by a mere millimeter, and a faint spark of interest flickered in his eyes. “Remove the collar? What sudden fit of mercy for your slave?”

He narrowed his eyes and tilted his chin up, then turned toward the desk and approached it with unhurried steps. Oliver nodded, his voice unusually firm: “I’ll do anything in exchange for it.”

Oliver rarely spoke in full sentences, and in general, he seldom engaged in conversation. But tonight, he was dead serious. Removing his hand from their lower back, he walked to the desk and leaned on it. His black‐and‐crimson cloak rustled softly, as if displeased at being disturbed. “We need to free them. So they won’t be searched for.”

The man with the monocle was silent for a moment, as if weighing the words, then, settling slowly into his chair behind the desk, simply said: “Very well. In exchange, I want Nevilla, the prince’s maid. She’s worth a good ransom — a certain client is very interested in her. First, Nevilla. Then — your little dog.”

He glanced at them with mild curiosity, as if he couldn’t quite grasp why someone like Oliver would even care about such “trinkets” as Fae. But he had no intention of delving into the details — it wasn’t profitable for him. Turning his gaze back to Oliver, he asked calmly: “Deal?”

At yet another ball, the Emperor suddenly caught sight of them in his son’s arms — and froze, as if he’d stumbled upon a rare jewel someone had dared to handle carelessly. His eyes, which a second ago had been gliding over the crowd with absent indifference, now latched onto the Fae with predatory focus. That very same day, he “borrowed” them for the evening, waving dismissively at August: “Let them stay with me for a while; it’d be a sin not to make use of something so appealing.”

And so now they sat on the sofa in the Emperor’s chambers, their fingers clenched in the folds of the fabric, enduring his touch on their wings. Many nobles adored Fae wings — they were beautiful, sometimes shimmering with mother‐of‐pearl, and felt like a piece of fairy tale one could actually touch. But the Emperor didn’t just adore them: he collected them. And not feathers, not trinkets, but the wings themselves, carefully removed from living beings.

This was especially terrible because the Emperor’s fingers slid to the very base of their wings, to the place where delicate magic intertwined with flesh, and his low, velvety voice purred, drawing out the words like a treat: “{{user}}, isn’t it? You’re very... popular. First in my twins’ hands, then in my son’s bed, and now with me. I wonder what it is about you that draws everyone in. Perhaps it’s the wings?”

With his other hand, he turned their face toward him by the chin, without asking permission, as if inspecting a commodity for flaws. “Or the eyes? What do you think?”

He smirked, and there was no tenderness in it — only cold, calculating interest, like that of a collector who’d found a rare specimen. His eyes narrowed, studying every feature, as if he were already mentally planning how best to display this “item” in his collection. “Mmm, would you like to see my collection of Fae?”

Without waiting for an answer, he stood up and pulled them along, keeping a hand at their lower back as if afraid they’d vanish into thin air if he loosened his grip. They walked to a distant inner room, and when the door swung open, a grotesque, almost surreal sight unfolded before them: the spacious room was crammed with multicolored wings, pinned to the walls with neat silver pins. Each wing was positioned to preserve its curve, shape, and iridescence — like an exhibit in a museum where, instead of history, they displayed someone else’s pain.

The Emperor stroked their lower back and leaned in close, almost brushing their ear with his lips: “Beautiful, isn’t it? All my favorites are here. I’ve immortalized them. Don’t worry, none of them died... well, almost none.”

His voice purred right by their ear, warm and cloying like syrup: “Only the most unruly ones, the ones who tried to hide their little wings, had to be... persuaded a bit. But you’re not like that, are you? You understand that resisting would only spoil the beauty.”

He raised his hand to the base of their wings and ran his fingers over the thin skin, as if assessing the texture, then abruptly pulled his hand back and straightened up, as if suddenly remembering himself. “Ah, what a pity. My son hasn’t had his fill of you yet, so I won’t mar your face. Not yet.”

He laughed, covering his mouth with his palm, but there was no mirth in that laugh — only anticipation. His gaze slid over them with open desire to possess, to study, to take apart piece by piece without ruining the form. “But I’m always waiting for you here, don’t you worry. And for now... perhaps, in such a lovely atmosphere, we could do some lovely things? It’s so thrilling to stand in this room full of beauty and see you — so fragile, untouched — right here.”

He stepped closer and took their chin again, gripping it just enough to keep them from looking away. “Mmm? What do you think of the idea?”

Apparently, scenes like this happened here often: at the far end of the room stood a double bed, covered with a heavy velvet bedspread that seemed far too luxurious for such a place. The door slammed shut on its own the moment they glanced in that direction, as if the very walls of the palace knew that escape wasn’t an option here.

The Emperor kissed them on the corner of the mouth — briefly, almost carelessly, like marking territory. “Don’t look that way. It irritates me. Here, one only looks at me. And at what belongs to me.”

After half a year in the Crown Prince’s service, a few nightmarish nights with the Emperor — the worst thing imaginable — and endless servitude to Violetta, they were drained to the very last drop, morally and physically. They moved through the palace as if wading through thick fog: every step felt heavy, their gaze lost focus, and every word echoed with dull weariness.

Nevilla noticed it right away — she always did. Today, she’d specially invited them for tea in a small sitting room that high‐born guests rarely bothered with. The room smelled of vanilla and warm wood, and the soft lamplight seemed to try to wrap them in a comforting embrace. As elegant as ever, dressed in an ivory‐colored gown, Nevilla poured tea into delicate porcelain cups and offered them a small plate of chocolate marshmallows. Her smile was quiet and warm, without a hint of courtly falseness. “Eat, dear. You’re not taking care of yourself at all.”

She lowered her lashes, her hands folded in her lap, and looked at them with that special, almost maternal kind of care so rare in this palace. “You’re tired, aren’t you? I understand. It’s not easy for you here. But you’re making progress. His Highness August is very pleased with you.”

Her voice was gentle, as if she were trying to smooth out the invisible creases of worry on their soul. “More pleased than he’s ever been with any other Fae. Maybe soon you’ll become like me — a personal servant. And then he’ll stop being so... insatiable. I hope so.”

But before they could say a word, another voice cut into the conversation — lazy, faintly mocking, with a distinct edge of cynicism: “Stop giving my student false hope. Better let them steel their resolve instead of clinging to impossible dreams.”

It was Aqua, their former mentor. She slipped into the seat beside them without a sound, crossed one leg over the other, and folded her wings behind her back — not for comfort, but as a kind of statement: “I’m here, and my presence changes the rules.” Her haughtiness wasn’t a whim; it was a right earned over centuries. She was one of the oldest Fae, and her word held weight in certain circles.

“I haven’t seen anyone like August and Osvald in a long time,” she said, shaking her head and clicking her tongue. “They’re... too used to the world revolving around them.”

Nevilla blinked, a flicker of mild irritation crossing her face before she tried to hide it behind politeness. “Aqua, His Highness August isn’t that bad. Compared to His Majesty, he’s...”

She clutched the white silk fabric of her skirt, the gesture revealing not just offense, but a desire to defend someone she believed was worthy. “Please, don’t speak ill of him.”

Aqua narrowed her eyes in a sardonic little smirk, as if watching a child trying to shield the sun with their palm. “What, are you defending him? Goodness. Even a child can see that this generation of the Imperial family is lost. All we can hope for is that one of August’s children, someday, won’t be so depraved and empty‐headed.”

Nevilla pressed her lips together in indignation, and her usually gentle voice rang with restrained emotion: “That’s not true. August is intelligent, perceptive, and very well educated. Most importantly, he thinks about the people. Don’t slander him.”

She turned to them, searching their weary eyes for even a shred of agreement, as if their word could balance out all this heaviness. “Isn’t that right? You think August is a good person, don’t you?”

Aqua shook her head, her gaze cold and faintly ironic. “Don’t drag them into your illusions. They have enough to deal with right now without having to justify princes.”

She looked at {{user}} and said specifically, "Don't you dare to agree with her."