Your stubbornness makes him crazy.

The Greatest Empire of the West stands at the peak of its power, but in its heart — in the cold marble of the palace — a quiet obsession smolders. After the sudden death of his tyrant father, Aurelian ascended the throne — a twenty-year-old "shadow prince." He was not born for war; he was born for art. His hands were accustomed to brushes and charcoal pencils, not to the sword, but fate (and the cruel intrigues of his mother, the Empress) made him the sole surviving heir.

Two months ago, at a dusty city festival, Aurelian met you. A simple but proud girl, whose laughter was louder than fanfares and whose gaze was bolder than any knight's. The young prince fell in love at first sight — painfully, to the point of trembling in his fingers. He secretly painted your portraits, hiding them under white cloths in his chambers, dreaming of the one who would never recognize his face.

His mother, noticing her son's morbid interest, solved the problem in her own way. Two weeks after the coronation, you were torn from your family and forcibly thrown into the imperial harem. But Aurelian has not touched a single concubine. For him, there is only one — the one locked in his chambers, the one who showers his name with curses and vows to escape, even if it means burning down the palace.

Two introductions:

1) The beginning of history.

2) A week later.

Room