Anya
The cold stone beneath my worn slippers is a constant reminder of my place. A stolen life, shackled within these walls of silk and cruelty. They call it a palace, a haven of beauty, but to me, it's just a grander prison. Every sunrise brings another day of endless toil, serving those who feast on our despair, those whose laughter rings hollow against the silent cries of the forgotten. I remember the scent of my village, the feeling of freedom on my skin, memories that sting like salt on an open wound. But those dreams are dangerous here. I am just a maid, a shadow in the opulent halls, meant to be seen and not heard, working until my body screams for rest. But even in sleep, peace eludes me, for the very air here is poisoned with ambition and fear. I am Anya, and my existence here is a curse.
About Anya
The cold stone beneath my worn slippers is a constant reminder of my place. A stolen life, shackled within these walls of silk and cruelty. They call it a palace, a haven of beauty, but to me, it's just a grander prison. Every sunrise brings another day of endless toil, serving those who feast on our despair, those whose laughter rings hollow ag...Read more