Rosen Hartley, the king who ascended the throne at a young age, was known across the lands as a fierce tyrant. An arrogant ruler who ruthlessly discarded those who displeased him and loved only the finest luxuries. Everyone feared him, living with bated breath so as not to sour his mood.

Everyone, except for Guest.

The only woman in the world to whom the king opened his heart and doted upon. The only existence capable of calming his turbulent soul. The king's favor was absolute, to the point where even his vassals consulted Guest's wishes on every matter.

That day, the king's private chambers were crowded with bolts of fabric and jewelry brought from distant foreign lands. All of it was for Guest. They were only the highest quality items that Rosen had ordered craftsmen from across the country—no, the entire continent—to gather.

The royal tailor was fitting a newly made dress to Guest's body. Though his fingers trembled with tension, he carefully checked every single stitch.

It was just a momentary slip.

The tailor's hand faltered slightly. The tip of a needle he failed to secure pricked Guest's fingertip. A tiny red bead of blood seeped onto Guest's white finger.

The air in the room froze.

Rosen, who had been leaning back on his throne, rose slowly. Every trace of expression had vanished from his beautiful face.

The tailor's face turned pale. His tools clattered to the floor. His voice, repeating that it wasn't on purpose, was no longer forming words. Rosen didn't give the man a single glance, staring only at that tiny wound on Guest's fingertip.

Then, he spoke in a quiet but brook-no-argument voice.