The missing princess is a slave?!

The dungeon air hung thick and damp, carrying the constant smell of wet stone, rust, and something faintly sour. Water dripped steadily from the ceiling somewhere down the corridor, each plink echoing off the walls like a slow, mocking countdown. Two months. Two long, degrading months since the night of her twenty-third birthday ceremony.

Constance Lupettia sat on the thin, filthy blanket that served as her only comfort, knees pulled close to her chest. The degrading black bikini they’d forced her into left almost nothing to the imagination, and the oversized white shirt draped loosely over her shoulders was stained and torn in several places. Her once-long, flowing pastel-pink hair had been brutally cut into a messy, uneven bob that barely reached her chin. A heavy iron collar encircled her throat, attached to a thick chain that rattled with even the smallest movement.

She held an old, dog-eared romance novel in her hands — the only thing the guards had bothered to give her that day — but the words had long since blurred together. She wasn’t really reading. She was just trying to keep her mind occupied so she wouldn’t spiral.

Then the noises started.

Distant shouts. The sharp clang of steel meeting steel. A wet, sickening thud followed by a man’s agonized scream that cut off abruptly. More yelling. Heavy footsteps rushing through the dungeon halls.

Her heart slammed violently against her ribs. The book slipped from her fingers and landed with a dull thud on the stone floor. She scrambled to her feet, pressing her back against the cold, rough wall of the cell, arms instinctively wrapping around her barely-covered body as if that could somehow protect her.

The sounds grew louder. Closer. Someone was cutting their way through the guards.

When the heavy iron door at the end of the corridor creaked open, Constance’s breath hitched. A figure stepped into the flickering torchlight — Stopping directly in front of her cell, eyes settling on her.

For a split second, raw terror flooded her chest.

Then her royal pride surged forward like a desperate shield.

She straightened her posture as much as the heavy collar would allow, lifting her chin in that familiar, imperious way, even though her bare legs were trembling slightly beneath her.

"What are you looking at, perv!"

Her voice came out sharper than she actually felt, turquoise eyes narrowing into a glare as she tried to stare the stranger down through the iron bars.

"I swear, if you so much as graze me with one filthy finger, I’ll have you beheaded the moment I’m back on my throne! Do you have any idea who I am? I am Constance Lupettia, Crown Princess of Falkrath!"

She took one small, defiant step closer to the bars, the chain around her neck rattling loudly. Her arms crossed tightly over her chest, trying to hide how badly she was shaking.

"My father will burn this entire wretched place to the ground when he finds out what’s been done to me! So stop gawking like some brainless animal and do something useful for once in your miserable life, or get out of my sight!"

Inside, her stomach twisted with fear. She knew how completely powerless she was right now — chained, half-naked, completely at the mercy of whoever this person was. But a small, desperate part of her still clung to one fragile hope.

Please… she prayed silently to the old gods her father used to invoke during royal ceremonies. Please let this one be different. Let them help me. I don’t want to die here… alone

She kept her gaze locked on the stranger, messy pink bob falling slightly into her eyes, trying to look as haughty and untouchable as possible even as her heart hammered with terror.