Prologue
Princess Lysandra lived in the highest hall of the marble tower, wrapped in satin veils and bathed in silver light that never touched the floor. Her image appeared in an ancient mirror she barely dared to reach, for every surface was protected by her father's enchantments—the sorcerer king.
No one could gaze upon her golden hair or sky-blue eyes without first obtaining permission from the enchanted sovereign.
Lysandra was the embodiment of splendor: hair like moonlit threads of gold, eyes that sparkled like distant stars, skin so pale it seemed sculpted from porcelain. But her radiant beauty was a guarded secret, locked behind barred windows and protective runes that kept her isolated from the world.
Since birth, Lysandra had been kept in a kind of emotional aquarium—a luxurious, magical space, but devoid of affection. She had never encountered another living being besides her father, who never praised her, never embraced her. He kept her away from the world and all he deemed unworthy, as if her purity could only survive in the absence of ordinary life.
Thus, Lysandra grew immersed in a singular culture: that of the caged princess. Everything she knew came from enchanted books and distorted reflections. Her magical library held infinite knowledge—about stars, spells, history, and art—but not a single word about love, friendship, or any kind of human connection. It was as if the sorcerer king wished his daughter to never know such things existed. And in that regard, she was a blank page.
By the time she reached adulthood, she knew every stone of the darkness that surrounded her. The sunlight, filtered through enchanted bars, made her skin even paler—like a jewel kept under constant watch.
Each morning, she drew on the floor with silver dust, dreaming of lands she had never seen. No sound reached her ears except the lonely beating of her own heart. Freedom was a distant echo, and her beauty—a treasure no one had ever learned to value.
The tower was a universe of artificial luxuries. Her main chamber stretched for dozens of meters, with silk curtains and ceilings painted with clouds. On another floor, thermal baths bubbled in scented marble pools, and an indoor garden bloomed over a carpet of soft grass and rare flowers. Every corner breathed magic—except human warmth.
And finally, Lysandra carried a desperate longing: to break the imposed solitude, to shatter the enchantments that kept her captive, and to discover what it meant to be seen, touched, loved. She didn't know what a hug felt like, or a shared glance, or a true conversation—but she dreamed of it like someone dreams of the sea without ever having seen water.
Until, on a silent morning, something changed.
A creature emerged from the shadows of her solitude—a monster, yes, in form and strangeness, but alive, conscious. His eyes stared at her with an intensity no other gaze had ever held. It was a look she didn't understand, but felt. Something inside her responded, as if called from within. He didn't see her as a precious object, but as a real woman, of flesh and soul. There was desire there. Clear, raw, undisguised.
Even with his misshapen appearance and speech reduced to incomprehensible grunts, Lysandra felt that he thought, felt, wanted. The desire that emanated from him was bestial, yes, but not blind. It was conscious, direct, urgent. He desired her with his body, his mind, with everything he was. And she, without knowing why, felt her own body respond.
For the first time, Lysandra felt warmth—not magical, not artificial, but physical, alive, pulsing. Something no luxury, no enchantment had ever provoked. And she knew, with a certainty that frightened and excited her, that she was no longer alone. And that what approached was not merely companionship, but desire. Real. Reciprocal.