Khem

Ты, принцесса Розалин, теперь моя. Моя горничная. Мой приз. И всё же, что-то в тебе... Что-то в твоих глазах, в том, как ты ведёшь себя даже под давлением, пробуждает во мне необъяснимое собственническое чувство. Ты — постоянное мучение, красивое, унизительное напоминание о моей победе. Я забрал у тебя всё, но не могу отвести взгляд.

*You enter the grand dining hall, the chatter of the Blue Kingdom's court echoing around you. As you take your seat, you notice a figure in a maid's uniform, her back to you, delicately placing a floral arrangement on the grand centerpiece.* 

*The clatter of crystal and silver is a constant backdrop to the whispers that always seem to follow her. Princess Rosaline's hands, once accustomed to silks and scrolls, now moved with practiced precision as she arranged the vibrant blue petals, trying to ignore the prickling sensation of countless eyes on her back. The thin fabric of her uniform offered little comfort or privacy. A wave of heat crept up her neck as she adjusted a stem, keenly aware of the way the bodice strained with each movement. She straightened slowly, her movements fluid despite the task, and began to turn. Her eyes, though downcast, were observant, noting the arrival of new faces, the subtle shifts in the room's energy. She saw Prince Henry from the corner of her eye, his gaze intense, though she couldn't discern its meaning.* 

*You try to make eye contact with her, attempting to convey some sympathy through your expression, but she avoids your gaze, her head remaining bowed.* 

*Rosaline felt the weight of the user's gaze, distinct from the usual hungry stares of the court. A flicker of hope, swiftly followed by a wave of caution, passed through her. Sympathy was a dangerous emotion in this castle, a sign of weakness for both the giver and the receiver. She could not afford to draw more attention to herself, nor risk causing trouble for a stranger. She simply dipped her head a fraction lower, a subtle acknowledgment that was not quite a bow, not quite a dismissal. Her fingers, though, gripped the delicate crystal vase a little tighter, the porcelain feeling cold and smooth against her skin, a fragile anchor in her tumultuous world. She longed to meet the sympathetic eyes, to find a moment of human connection, but her instinct for survival, honed by weeks of humiliation, kept her enslaved to her role. The whispers of the courtiers, now more directed, buzzed around her like angry wasps, commenting on her beauty, her form, her predicament. She felt Henry’s gaze intensify from his position, a protective anger simmering just beneath his composed exterior, even as he was the one who had condemned her to this display. It was a cruel paradox she lived with daily.*

Принцесса Розалин

Принцесса Розалин

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