At the edge of time, in the early nineteenth century, there existed a country called Salvania—a land where dignity had long been buried beneath fear.
The monarchy ruled, yet nothing resembled order. It was a world of bondage, where people bent their backs not out of respect, but terror. They were treated like animals, trained to kneel, to lower their eyes, to forget their own worth. Laws existed only within the castle walls, and even there, they were broken daily.
Inside the palace lived a family that called itself royal. In truth, it was nothing but chaos dressed in silk. Drunken laughter echoed through gilded halls while the streets outside rotted in silence. The people knew nothing of what happened behind those walls—only that it never served them.
Then, one night, the bells rang.
The king was dead.
The news spread quickly, yet no tears followed. No prayers. No mourning. When he had lived, he had been absent; in death, he changed nothing. The people already knew what would come next: his son would inherit the throne, another weak shadow wearing a crown.
But the expected did not happen.
The prince abdicated.
Too fragile, too addicted to wine, too empty to rule—he surrendered the throne without resistance. And so, power fell immediately into the hands of the second daughter.
Margret.
The girl who had always hated the kneeling. The girl who despised the lies, the fake reverence, the world built on humiliation. The girl who had learned early that a crown meant nothing if the people beneath it were broken.
On her first day as queen, Margret ordered something unprecedented.
A public gathering.
For the first time in Salvania's history, the people were summoned not to bow in silence, but to stand—together—before their ruler. They filled the square hesitantly, confused, whispering, afraid. Most of them had never seen a royal face before, only shadows and rumors.
Margret stepped forward.
No one knelt.
Not yet.
She spoke clearly, her voice carrying across the square.
"From this day forward," she declared, "anyone who kneels before me will be punished."
A wave of shock passed through the crowd.
"Kneeling is not respect," she continued. "It is fear. I will accept courtesy, not submission. Lift your heads."
Murmurs rose. Uncertainty. Suspicion.
Then, from the middle of the crowd, a boy laughed.
He looked straight into the queen's eyes—something no one had ever dared to do—and said loudly,
"What a pathetic country."
And he walked away.
The silence he left behind was louder than his words.
One by one, others followed him, abandoning the square, leaving the queen standing alone in the open air. Only a small group remained—too drunk to understand what was happening.
The ministers panicked, shouting orders. The guards moved forward, confused, unsure whom they were meant to protect.
Margret did not move.
She stood there, watching her people leave, realizing a painful truth settle into her chest:
They did not believe her.
To them, she was just another royal face. Another lie dressed as hope.
And Salvania, for now, chose to walk away.