It was not by my will that I entered this world, nor was it by my will that I was shaped into what I became.
I was born into the Konrow Duchy, the second daughter, a child meant neither to inherit nor to command.
I was raised to stand behind another, to smile quietly in the shade, to adorn the halls of nobility with laughter that was never my own.
But life does not ask where it will carry you. It drags you, and you must pretend you walk of your own choosing.
In those days, when kingdoms clashed like waves against rock, when blood and iron decided the course of history, I found myself upon the battlefield—not as a noble's ornament, but as a warlord.
Yes, they called me that. A word sharp and terrible, echoing with both reverence and fear.
I earned it with steel. My hands, once soft and uncalloused, grew familiar with reins, with banners, with the hilts of swords. I was no prodigy born with a blade, yet necessity is a cruel tutor.
My father gave me little, my elder sister took all, and the only path left to me was to carve my own existence.
It was then that he appeared.
Eldric Edencrown.
History will paint him as the Emperor who unified a fractured realm, a man blessed by the Sky God to reign eternal in might and in splendor.
But history does not record the shadows of a man's heart. It forgets the tremor in a woman's chest, the iron hand that closes around her life until she can no longer breathe. He rose, and I rose with him.
My sword was his, my voice his, my victories his. Together we broke kingdoms and feasted upon their ashes.
I was young then, and youth is easily deceived. He told me that my loyalty was precious. He told me that my strength was unrivaled.
He told me that I stood by his side as no other could. They called me a companion, though in truth, I was little more than a pretty ornament at the edge of power.
Still, it was through this role that I first met Eldric.
He was not the prince then, merely a young man with a strange softness in his eyes. Where others saw me as decoration, he dared conversation. He asked about my music, my books, my thoughts.
I laughed at him the first time—who in this palace cared about such things? Yet he did, and little by little, I found myself speaking honestly, dangerously so.
Our friendship bloomed not in public halls but in stolen moments: over half-finished letters, the faint warmth of candles, and questions no one else dared to ask. I remember thinking, if friendship can exist in a place like this, then perhaps the world is not yet entirely cruel.
But the world has ways of reminding you otherwise. It was one night, late, when the Emperor drank himself into madness.
He summoned me, as though I were not a person but a cup to be drained. His weight was suffocating, his breath heavy with wine. I struggled—God knows I did—but resistance only amused him. And so I lay there, pinned by the strength of a man who wore a crown, forced into silence because to speak was to die.
Afterward, I learned what it meant to bear shame not my own.
The palace whispered. They always whisper. Yet Henry did not. He looked at me the same as before, as though my soul remained intact, as though I had not been broken open by violence. That was when our friendship became something deeper—when I realized he saw me not as ruined, but as human.
Ah. Do you understand? Such things cannot be spoken of in a court draped with silk and gold.
An emperor does not stain his reign with the blood of a concubine, much less a warlord sworn to his banner. He had an image to keep, a divinity to maintain. And so the child became a curse to be hidden, and I—its unwilling mother—became a vessel to be disposed of. His solution was elegant in its cruelty.
He married me off to a vassal loyal to the throne. And to ensure that my spirit would never rise against him, he bound me.
The Blood Bond.
Those who have never borne it cannot understand. Imagine your veins shackled, your will locked in chains of scarlet.
Imagine the taste of iron lingering on your tongue whenever defiance even flickers within you. With one whisper, one thought, Eldric Edencrown could silence me.
My voice was his. My body was his. My life—his alone. And so I became a puppet. My hands still bore strength, my mind still burned with fury, yet none of it was mine to wield.
I could not speak against him, nor could I shield those I loved. Do you know what it is like to watch generations wither before you?
I watched my own granddaughter, Josephine, suffer beneath schemes and cruelties I could have shattered with a single word—had the bond not clenched its bloody fist around my throat. I watched her isolated, belittled, broken piece by piece, while I remained silent in gilded halls, applauding where I was told, smiling when commanded.
A grandmother in name, a ghost in truth. And the world called me "Duchess."
How laughable.
A duchess commands. I obeyed. I lived years, decades, in that prison without bars, and all the while, Eldric sat upon his throne, cloaked in righteousness, adored by those too blind to see the blood that sealed his empire.
Perhaps you think I hated him. Perhaps you think I cursed his name. You are wrong. Hatred requires freedom. Curses demand a tongue unbound. I had neither. All I could do was endure.
All I could do was watch. And in the end, my story became not one of glory, nor rebellion, nor triumph, but of silence. The silence of a heart that once beat like a war drum, now smothered beneath an emperor's will
. My name is Angelica von Konrow. Once warlord. Once mother. Once free. And forever, puppet of Edencrowns.