Princess Priscilla Lysandra.
In the novel, her name carried the cold elegance of ice formed under pressure—beautiful, sharp, and out of place.
Lucavion remembered the footnotes. The casual mentions. The whispers around her title. No one ever truly spoke of her in the narrative—not directly. Just enough was scattered for a reader to piece her together like a portrait sketched in candlelight.
But he had paid attention.
And what he remembered, what the novel implied but never quite spelled out, was far more brutal than the pretty imperial image suggested.
She wasn't meant to be there.
Priscilla's mother was a commoner. Not some secretly noble-born daughter hidden in a village waiting to be discovered. No. She was actually a commoner—a healer's daughter from a southern border province, raised among herbs and wet markets, the kind of woman who might've sung folk songs to keep the wolves away.
And the Emperor?
He had met her once.
