As soon as he had climbed the marble steps, with his heavy dress crawling on the floor, and all eyes were on it. The silence was almost sacred, not out of respect, but out of sheer shame and discomfort. In the yard, smiles were masks. Everyone was waiting for the king’s announcement, but no one, absolutely no one, expected this.
Her name was Elizabeth, the only daughter of King Aldemirus, ruler of a cold and cruel kingdom where appearance prevailed over character. Elizabeth was born different, different from the other princesses. Since childhood, she had been a plump, with a stubborn cheeks and an insatiable appetite. While the other girls practiced grace and dance, Isabel was hiding in the kitchen, finding comfort in cakes and sweet bread.
Over the years, his father’s contempt grew. At the age of thirteen, he was already the object of restrained mockery by the servants. At fifteen, the suitors even refused to accept his portraits. At seventeen, the king lost patience. To him, she was not a princess, but a burden, a disgrace.
Everything changed on a cold day under a grey sky. The living room was crowded. Nobles, gentlemen and messengers had gathered for a special ceremony, not knowing the reason. Isabel was forced to wear a tight, suffocating royal dress. Her hands trembled as she ascended the throne, where her father was waiting for her with a cold look.
“Today,” said the king firmly and impassibly, “my daughter will receive the fate she deserves.
People exchanged glances. “A boyfriend,” they thought. “They’re finally going to marry her.”
But instead of a nobleman, two soldiers brought a chained, dirty man with wounds to his face and barefoot.
“Rob,” everyone whispered.
Isabella was paralyzed. The King continued:
“If my daughter refuses to be a worthy representative of the crown, let her marry someone who is worse than the earth. I give this man to Elizabeth as punishment for her misfortune, weakness, and grotesque existence.
The world was going around. Isabella’s eyes were filled with tears, but she didn’t cry or pray. He just bowed his head. He suppressed the pain, as he always did.
Next to him, the slave—no one even knew his name—stared at the ground as if he wanted to disappear.
The living room was filled with murmurs. Some ladies concealed their smiles, others looked away. And the king seemed pleased, as if he had finally gotten rid of a problem.
Isabella was taken to the most remote corners of the palace, to places she had never seen. His new “room” was an old warehouse, hastly conditioned. The slave was given a key, a piece of hard bread and a single order:
“Don’t touch her unless she asks you. But stay with her. Forever.”
That night, lying on a thin mattress and listening to the rain hit the windows, Isabela stared at the ceiling. The slave slept on the floor, wrapped in an old blanket. The silence was different; it was not the silence of contempt, but that of someone who did not judge.
For the first time, I was not afraid. I didn’t feel hate. He experienced a strange sensation: a slight void, as if the humiliation of the day had opened a new space inside.
Dawn shrouded in fog. The slave, his uninvited companion, stood up carefully, trying not to make noise. She watched him in silence.
In the following days he behaved with respect and modesty, without looking up. On the third day he spoke for the first time.
“Ma’am…do you want bread?”
