I remember that day vividly. The air was thick with smoke, suffocating and acrid, as flames tore through the slums of the lower city. Frantic cries filled the chaos, only to be swallowed by the relentless roar of the fire. Amid the wreckage and ruin, a young girl with matted hair and hollow cheeks struggled to breathe. That girl was me—an orphan with no name, only the ragged clothes on my back—a humble pickpocket by necessity.

Each cough wracked my frail body as I stumbled through the burning debris, my eyes stinging from the smoke. Through my blurred vision, I saw a man's foot on the cobbled path ahead. He lifted me onto the back of a wooden cart, where other soot-streaked children lay huddled together. I felt a brief, fleeting sense of relief until I noticed their feet bound by rope. The grim reality set in—I was to be sold.

As the cart jolted forward, I struggled to remain conscious, but the ropes digging into my ankles with each bump kept me awake. I had heard unsettling stories at the orphanage about friends disappearing. Some of mine had left too, and I had naively assumed they had moved on to better things. It didn't occur to me then that the world could be so cruel, finding profit in a tragedy.

The cart trundled through winding streets and past opulent mansions, each passing scene a stark contrast to the devastation we had fled. Eventually, it came to a halt in front of a modest estate on the city's outskirts. Two elderly women awaited us: one holding a parasol overhead, dressed in a well-tailored gown of deep navy blue. Her gown featured a fitted bodice, a modest high neckline, and simple lace trimmings on long, slightly gathered sleeves. She was clearly a noblewoman. The other woman was dressed in plain clothes with her head bowed and hands clasped. a maid.

The man dismounted and opened the cart, his stern gaze sweeping over us with detached indifference. One by one, we were led out by the rope into the estate's courtyard, where the women stood.

"Good heavens, you made me stand out here for hours," the noblewoman began, her voice laced with irritation. "I had to send for a parasol. Do you think this is appropriate?"

"No, Madame Rosamund," the man replied, tipping his hat as he addressed her. His tone was apologetic, though his expression remained impassive.

Madame Rosamund's gaze lingered on us with curiosity. "Well then, let's see what we have here," she said, lifting her parasol away from her face.

I was struck by her beauty—her features were sharp and elegant, with hardly a wrinkle marring her porcelain skin. Her sharp green eyes swept over us with a practiced, assessing look. As she approached me, her expression softened slightly, but it wasn't out of pity.

She gestured to the servant beside her to bring me closer. The maid, a stern-faced woman, moved swiftly to unbind my feet with mechanical efficiency. As the ropes fell away, Madame Rosamund stepped closer, removing one of her gloves. She reached out and grasped my jaw with her bare hand, turning my face from side to side; her gaze never wavered as she studied me. I felt exposed, like a specimen under a magnifying glass, though I couldn't fathom what she saw in me.

After a tense moment, she turned to the man who had brought us and spoke with an air of finality. "This one," she declared, still holding my jaw. "She's worth 3 silver coins. You'll have nothing more from me."

The man doesn't fight it. He led the other children away, leaving me standing alone in the courtyard, my heart pounding uncontrollably. Fear and uncertainty gripped me. What was to become of me now?

Madame Rosamund released my jaw and took a step back, her gaze still fixed on me. "Listen carefully, child," she began. "I am not your mother, and you are not my child. We share no blood, no bond. I am simply employing you. You're old enough to understand what that means, aren't you?"

Employing? The word hung in the air, both confusing and foreboding.

"You are to live under my roof and debut into society as my grandchild. From this moment on, you are a Rosamund," she continued, her eyes narrowing as she scrutinised me further. She reached out, brushing a strand of my hair, her lips curling into a faint, almost disdainful smile.

"Mielle... yes, I imagine they'd give a child a name as dreadfully tacky as that," she muttered to herself.

"Your name is Mielle Von Rosamund, the illegitimate daughter of my foolish son and his commoner mistress. Do you understand?"

The weight of her words pressed down on me, heavy and inescapable. I nodded, too frightened to do anything else. There was no room for protest.

"Good," Madame Rosamund said with finality, her expression hardening once more. "You will be trained and taught how to behave like a proper Rosamund. Remember, your past life no longer exists. From this day on, you are Mielle Von Rosamund, and you will act accordingly."

With that, Madame Rosamund turned away, addressing the maid. "Beatrice, attend to Lady Mielle's condition."

The stern-faced Beatrice guided me through the grand halls of the estate and into a large bedroom, the size of the whole orphanage. Inside, she stripped away the stained remnants of my clothes and scrubbed my skin until it was clean. She dressed me in fine, unfamiliar fabrics that draped over me with a softness I had never felt before. I scarcely recognised the reflection that stared back at me in the mirror. The transformation was stark.

"Lady Mielle," Beatrice said softly, her tone gentler now, almost as if she could sense my unease. She approached with an enamelled hairbrush nestled in a delicate, ornate box.

I glanced at the brush, then back at her, feeling a flicker of discomfort. "Y-yes, ma'am," I replied, trying to be polite.

Beatrice's expression tightened slightly as she began to brush my hair, each stroke carefully and practiced. "My lady," she said, her voice carrying a gentle reproach, "there's no need to address me with such formal respect. I am just a maid. Save that courtesy for Madame Rosamund."

"Yes, Beatrice," I corrected myself, testing the name on my tongue.

She offered a small smile in response, a rare softness in her otherwise stern demeanour. I caught the briefest hint of it in the mirror, and it brought a small amount of comfort.

Days blurred into weeks, and weeks into months. My life at the estate fell into a rigid routine, each day a reflection of the one before. From dawn until dusk, I was drilled relentlessly in etiquette, speech, and the intricate rules that governed the world of the nobility. What had once been foreign and overwhelming slowly became familiar, though never truly comfortable. Every gesture, every word, and every breath was dictated by a strict code I had to learn to navigate.

For the next eight years, I lived in this carefully controlled world, every movement and word shaped by Madame Rosamund's stern guidance. The estate, with its grand halls and manicured gardens, was both my home and my school, a place where I learnt to smile on command, curtsy with grace, and dance as if I had been born to it.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the ballroom, I found myself once again amid a gruelling dance lesson. The waltz—a dance that had become the latest craze among the elite—was particularly challenging, each step requiring perfect timing and fluid grace. I moved through the motions mechanically; my body tired from hours of practice.

"Mielle!" Madame Rosamund's voice sliced through the air like a whip, startling me out of my daze. She stepped forward, her eyes sharp with displeasure, and snapped her fingers inches from my face. "Are you even paying attention?"

I blinked, my heart pounding as I nodded quickly. "I am, Madame. Just a bit tired, that's all."

"Well, if you truly wish to rest tonight," she continued, "then I suggest you focus on mastering this waltz. It's the height of fashion in high society, and your debut is approaching faster than you think."

"Yes, Madame," I replied, trying to mask my frustration. "I'm well aware of what's to come."

For a fleeting moment, I allowed my eyes to roll in a gesture of defiance, though I quickly corrected myself before she could notice. I pushed through the final few steps, my limbs heavy and a yawn threatening to escape, but I managed to complete the routine with the elegance that had been drilled into me.

"Perfect, just like a fairy." Madame Rosamund remarked, her smile cool as she applauded my efforts. "That will do for tonight."

Three sharp knocks echoed from the door, breaking the stillness of the room. From the other side, Beatrice's steady voice called out with strict formality.

"Madame Rosamund, Lady Mielle, a letter has arrived from the palace."