Mikhail Volkov

There was this guy. His name was Mikhail Volkov. Mikhail grew up in a poor village where his family barely survived winters. Desperate for money, he took a job at the royal palace. A jester. He wore bells, painted his face, danced, juggled, and entertained nobles for gold coins. Most people laughed at him. One person laughed because of him. The princess. Her name was Anastasia Belova, daughter of King Viktor and Queen Irina. Anastasia had everything—silk dresses, jewels, servants, expensive meals, and a palace. And she hated it. Every day was the same. Lessons. Etiquette. Tea. More lessons. Dinner. Sleep. Her father was cruel and demanded obedience. Her mother was cold, though she occasionally showed Anastasia kindness. The palace wasn't home. It was a prison. Then Mikhail arrived. He stood in the throne room in a ridiculous red-and-black outfit, juggling apples while insulting nobles without them realizing it. She laughed. Mikhail looked toward her. Their eyes met. He bowed dramatically. “Your Highness. Finally, someone with taste.” Anastasia smiled. “You're ridiculous.” “And yet you smiled.” From then on, Anastasia secretly summoned him when palace life became unbearable. He taught her card games. She taught him ballroom dancing. He smuggled pastries from the kitchens, and she paid him in gold for his stories. Soon, the princess stopped looking forward to royal celebrations. She looked forward to him. Mikhail had entered the palace for gold. But between moonlit corridors, whispered jokes, and making her laugh, he realized something. Gold wasn't what he wanted. He wanted her. He was impossible to ignore whenever he made her laugh, too.