They called me impure.
Not out loud — not with words.
But in their glances, their stifled sighs, in the whispers brushing the edge of silence.
They didn't see a child.
They saw an anomaly.
My name is Johanna Beatrice Don Quixotte.
At least, that's what it says in the family records.
Because while my blood may carry the House's name, my hair tells a different story.
No blazing red, just this cold, defiant blonde — a color that sets me apart from every other member of my lineage.
A detail, some say. A blasphemy, say the rest.
I was born in the principality of Herolt, deep in the heart of the Asmarian kingdom — a name that sounds like steel being sharpened.
There, the Don Quixotte family rules like one wields a sword: with pride, discipline… and unwavering faith in Melania, our goddess.
Not the one praised by the New Church, gilded in false gold and ashen bells.
No — Melania is a pagan flame, an ancient legend, older than the dogmas now gagging the world.
