Hidden

The highborn are all too much like glass, offering up their tributes for my father’s favor. They think this smile, my attention, flattery, maidenhood is for them; my life for sale at our Winter Festival. Must I partake in the praise and indulgences rippling through my father’s royal court? “My Lord,” I curtsey, submitting to my duty as Princess, the scent of my freedom no longer fills the air, for this burden I do bear. His feral scent and lips so dry cannot lower my smile, yet I shy away from his gaze; for in my eyes, my true feelings are revealed.