Captured By The Prince's Heart

She doesn't remember her name.

Not truly.

Sometimes, in dreams, it flutters through her mind like a leaf on fire-burning too fast to catch.

A whisper, sweet and warm, once spoken by a woman with soft hands and gold-lined robes.

A man with a deep voice who smelled of sandalwood and power used to call her by it too.

Her name once echoed in marble halls and open courtyards.

It was etched in song, embroidered in silk, and kissed into her forehead every night.

But now... there is only silence.

Now, she is "thing." "Girl." "Slave." "Concubine."

She has not been a person in years.

The air reeks of rot. Of old blood, sweat, and things no one speaks of.

She sits curled on the floor of a crowded slave barracks-though even that word is too generous.

It's a makeshift dungeon built from cracked stone and moldy straw, lit only by the torches that hang from rusted iron brackets.

Chains cling to her wrists and ankles, not tight enough to bleed, but just enough to remind her she is not free.

She shifts as quietly as she can.

Every movement draws pain-a dull throb in her ribs, a sharp sting down her back where fresh lashes haven't healed.

A rat scurries past her bare foot. She doesn't flinch.

Flinching gets you noticed.

Being noticed gets you chosen.

And being chosen... hurts.

She has mastered the art of being invisible.

*****

She was thirteen when the fire came.

The kingdom had been so full of life then-laughter echoing across palace balconies, the scent of rose oil thick in the morning air.

She remembers gardens blooming year-round, the shine of gold-plated armor on royal guards, and her father's rich voice teaching her the languages of diplomacy.

"You are a princess," he would say.

"But more than that-you are my legacy."

He taught her how to ride. How to read maps.

Her mother taught her grace-how to tilt her chin when addressing nobles, how to glide like the wind when she danced.

But all that ended when the gates fell.

It began with smoke. Then screams.

She still hears them at night.

The enemy didn't just conquer-they destroyed.

The invaders were beasts cloaked in human skin.

They set fire to the temples, dragged nobles from their homes, and slit the throats of scholars and priests.

Her mother had shielded her with her body, kissing her forehead one last time before shoving her down into the secret passage beneath the throne room.

"Stay quiet. Run if you can. And never forget who you are."

She didn't get to run far.

The passage was blocked. Someone had betrayed them.

The enemy found her hiding among the wine barrels, and from that moment on, her fate was sealed.

Too young to fight back. Too pretty to be killed.

Too valuable to be left behind.

They bound her in chains, and thus began the years of passing hands-like a cursed artifact no kingdom wanted to keep, yet none could resist owning.

******

Some kings bought her as a gift. Others as punishment for disobedient sons.

She was once thrown into a pit to fight for her food like a dog.

Another time, she was painted and paraded before foreign envoys to display the "spoils of war."

She has been called many things-"exotic," "useless," "tempting," "haunted."

She stopped reacting to any of them long ago.

The worst fate was always the nights.

Especially when a king was drunk.

Or when nobles gathered in masks and gold-trimmed cloaks to "sample" the stolen flesh of conquered royalty.

She wasn't the only one.

Dozens of girls had been like her. Bright-eyed at first.

Full of fire. Most of them broke within weeks.

The strong ones lasted a year. A few vanished without explanation.

She never asked where they went. Asking led to punishment.

She learned to survive by shrinking.

By curling into herself so tightly the world forgot she existed. She ate little, spoke less.

But inside, the storm raged. A small voice, buried beneath the ash, still whispered:

Live. Endure. Just one more day.

******

Tonight, the barracks buzz with unease.

Hope-though she doesn't know that name yet-keeps her head down, watching the patterns of the torchlight flicker across the stones.

Whispers rise among the other slaves.

The guards are on edge. Armor clinks. Horses stamp outside.

Another war.

Another army.

Another chance to be passed along like grain or gold.

She doesn't hope for freedom. Not anymore.

Hope is a word that hurts more than chains.

It's a lie slaves tell themselves to survive another day of torment. She gave up that lie years ago.

Still, something feels different this time.

The guards shout. A horn blares in the distance.

One slave girl begins to sob, clinging to her pregnant belly.

Another whispers a desperate prayer.

One of the older women-who used to be into black magic draws a symbol on the ground.

"Blood is coming," she mutters.

Hope closes her eyes.

She doesn't care who wins this war.

She just hopes-against all reason-that tonight, she is not chosen.

That the soldiers who come won't see her.

That maybe, this time, death will come quietly in her sleep, and carry her back to her mother's arms.

But fate was never so kind.

Not to slaves.

Not to nameless girls.

The air shifts.

Even before the guards shout, the tension is thick-like the moment before a thunderstorm splits the sky.

Hope doesn't lift her head, but she can feel it-crackling through the stone floor, vibrating in her bones.

Something is wrong.

Or maybe... something is about to change.

A harsh clang of the outer gates rings through the slave quarters, followed by the thunder of armored boots.

The soldiers are running.

Not patrolling. Not drunk. Running.

Orders are shouted in a language she doesn't fully understand, but the panic is clear enough.

"The northern wall- breached!"

"Where is Commander Terel?!"

"Get the archers on the battlements! MOVE!"

The screams begin next.

Not the slow, personal cries of torment she's used to.

No, these are sharper. Sharper and shorter.

The screams of men dying too fast to understand how. Metal clashes with metal outside. Horses scream as they're cut down.

Fire takes to the sky in a blistering arc-an explosion that lights up the dungeon bars like stained glass.

Hope doesn't move.

Neither do the others. Fear paralyzes them all.

A few of the younger girls begin to whimper, but even they know better than to speak loudly.

The matron presses a hand to one child's mouth.

"They've come," someone whispers. "The Caelum army."

The name sends a ripple through the room.

Caelum.

A sun-born empire. Ruthless. Efficient.

Rumored to turn even deserts into palaces with their power.

And their crown prince? A warrior born with fire in his hands and winter in his eyes.

Zavian Caelum Solare.

Hope has heard the name once-murmured by a trembling noble before he was dragged to the stake.

Zavian was supposed to be across the seas.

Leading conquests in the east. What is he doing here?

A heavy iron bolt slides across the door.

The guards come storming in.

Their faces are streaked with sweat and soot, armor dented and weapons drawn.

"On your feet!" one barks. "Get up, you filthy rats!"

When no one moves fast enough, a whip lashes across the air. The crack of pain slices through the silence.

Hope flinches instinctively but doesn't cry out.

She's learned that pain is easier than attention.

"Move them to the inner keep!" the guard yells to another.

"If the prince takes this place, the last thing we need is him finding his entertainment murdered in their cages."

The second guard spits.

"What does it matter? They're just slaves."

The first sneers.

"They're property. And you know what his father does to looters."

Hope is yanked to her feet.

Her legs are weak. She stumbles, and the chain bites into her ankle.

Around her, other girls are being herded like cattle.

Crying. Limping. Bleeding. No one fights.

They've forgotten how.

As they're dragged through narrow tunnels toward the palace interior, another blast rocks the earth.

The fortress is falling.

The cries of dying men are now deafening, closer than ever.

The world she's been imprisoned in is crumbling.

And somewhere out there-Prince Zavian rides with fire in his eyes.

And fate in his hands.

Hope's chains jangle as she's pulled through a crumbling corridor lit by flickering torches.

Then, without warning, she's separated from the others.

One of the guards grips her wrist harder, yanking her toward a side chamber.

It's a smaller room, quiet and half-lit, the walls stained with old blood.

The kind of place where no one hears you scream.

Even with the thinness of her limbs and the faint bruises on her arms, her form has grown into something womanly-soft curves formed despite years of starvation.

They see it. They always do.

"She's ripe," the older guard grins, tossing his blade aside.

Hope backs into the wall.

Her hands tremble as she clutches her shift. Her breath shallows.

"No one'll notice. Just a quick taste before the prince even gets here," one says.

The other chuckles.

Their shadows stretch toward her, dark and looming.

But the door crashes open.

A gust of wind and ash follows a tall figure into the room-his black armor dusted with soot, hair like midnight tumbling across his brow, and eyes blazing with fury.

"Step away from her," comes the voice-low, deadly, and unmistakably royal.

The guards freeze.

Hope's eyes fly open.

And for the first time, she sees him-Prince Zavian Caelum Solare.

And everything in her world begins to shift.