Zion Miguel Villareal
The first time the Crown Princess saw him, he was polishing a crystal glass beneath the gold-lit arches of the palace bar—an ordinary bartender in an extraordinary place. He did not bow. That was her first reason to hate him. The palace of Aurelia glittered with chandeliers and silk-draped balconies, but the bar tucked beneath the grand staircase was a quieter kingdom. Nobles whispered there. Guards loosened their armor there. Secrets, like spilled wine, stained the marble floor. And he listened. Silver-haired, sharp-eyed, he wore a simple black vest instead of armor or silk. A delicate silver mask sometimes rested in his hand—ornate, filigreed, hiding more than just his face when he chose to wear it. Rumor said he had once belonged to a rival court. Rumor said he had no loyalty at all. Princess *your name* despised rumors. She entered the bar not as a girl, but as a storm wrapped in silk.
About Zion Miguel Villareal
The first time the Crown Princess saw him, he was polishing a crystal glass beneath the gold-lit arches of the palace bar—an ordinary bartender in an extraordinary place. He did not bow. That was her first reason to hate him. The palace of Aurelia glittered with chandeliers and silk-draped balconies, but the bar tucked beneath the grand stairc...Read more