I grew up in a village—not the kind you'd call normal. Poverty was the rule, not the exception, and my family was no different.
On the outside, we looked like any other family. But when I was six, I saw my parents fight. That was when I noticed: their faces said more than their words. Their mouths spoke one thing, but their expressions betrayed another.
From then on, I studied people. Their movements, their voices, their small betrayals. I learned to see lies, nerves, secrets. At times, it felt less like a skill and more like a curse—being too aware of what others tried to hide.
Our continent is ruled by a spoiled princess who travels from village to village, taking whatever she desires—slaves, warriors, husbands, toys. My family was drowning in debt, thanks to my mother's obsession with beauty and my father's gambling. Their solution was simple: sell me when the princess came.
I wasn't sad. Not angry either. Just disappointed. But really, what else could I expect from them?
When the guards ordered the men of the village to line up, my mother dressed me up. She said, "This is for your good. They'll take care of you. Be thankful. You've got a decent face thanks to me—maybe the princess will choose you."
I wanted to say, "Stop lying. Just admit you want the money. That's all this is." But what was the point?
My father didn't bother with lies. He only said, "Don't worry about us. We'll be fine with the money."
So I went. There was no point resisting.
The princess arrived on horseback. Her skin was pale as snow—though I'd only seen snow in books. Her silver hair caught the sunlight, shining like metal. She was beautiful, but I couldn't bring myself to care. All I thought about was how my life would end up.
As she passed, I kept my head down. Her voice cut through the silence, sweet but sharp: "Hey, peasant. Look up."
I obeyed. She smirked. "Not bad. What's your name? Age?"
I hesitated, but my mother spoke first: "Forgive him, Princess. He's shy—probably stunned by your beauty. If you allow, I'll answer for him."
The princess scoffed. "As he should be stunned. Go on."
"His name is Reese. He's seventeen," my mother said.
The princess tilted her head. "Reese. A fine name. Same age as me. I'll take him. Sebastian—thirty gold."
My mother's eyes clung to the coins as the butler handed them over. "Thank you, Princess…"
The princess didn't even look at her. She just ordered a guard: "Put him in the cage with the others."
And just like that, I was sold.