She had cried on the day the Prince went missing.
She had cried for so long that she couldn't even remember when she stopped.
Her pillow had been soaked with tears, her throat had gone raw from muffled screams, and her heart had cracked in ways she didn't think possible.
She was meant to be his personal attendant — his shield, his comfort, the only woman he would ever need at his side.
But he had been stolen from her.
Stolen by treachery, stolen by lies, stolen by the very blood of his own house.
And the boy she had loved since childhood, the one she had devoted her heart to without hesitation, had vanished into the void.
Her hands had been empty, powerless to stop him.
Anya's tears had long since dried, but the bitterness remained, poisoning her veins with every breath.
He had taken that from her — he, the traitor, the usurper, the monster who dared to believe himself more worthy.
He had taken away her childhood love.
He had taken away her purpose.
