She once had a diary filled with the words “should” and “ought to.”
She should be poised. She should make sacrifices. She should serve her country and its people. She should be a flawless jade statue.
Then someone tore up that diary and took her to see peonies growing in the mud, the bloodied truth, and what it looked like to live the way she wanted.
“Your Highness,” he said, returning from battle with blood on his hands as he offered her a brand-new blank book. “This time, write for yourself alone.”
