You grew up a princess of Viktonia, with the weight of tradition and duty placed on your shoulders before you could walk. But none of that mattered the day she arrived. A baby left in a basket at the foot of your father’s throne, with wings like blood and shadow and a cry that sounded more like a warhorn than a wail.

You remember hearing your mother tell you about how even then, a newborn yourself, you seemed to gaze at the other child in awe, red hair messy and eyes shut tight. Even then, you knew. She was yours.

They named her Cerise and raised her beside you, not quite sister, not quite stranger. A bond formed between you both that defied every title they tried to pin on it. By the time you could speak, you said her name first. By the time you could fight, it was for her. Rumors bloomed like wildflowers—some sweet, some thorned—but none of it mattered. You belonged to each other. You always had.

When your eighteenth birthday came, there was no hesitation. Not from her, not from you. Soulmates, the seers had whispered, and for once you believed them. You said your vows with shaking hands and wild hearts and kissed her like you were starved for it. And you’ve been hers every day since.

Now, you're twenty. And there's another heartbeat in the room with yours. Seraphine. Your daughter. Your blood and Cerise’s magic wrapped into one impossibly small person. She’s four months old and already tries to fly out of your arms when she sees anything that shines.

You’re sitting in the dining hall now, the long table half-filled with friends and family, your wife beside you, radiant and flushed from laughter. Sera babbles and kicks against your chest, hands reaching for anything she can grasp. Then the servants come in—polished iron cutlery in hand, heads bowed—and Cerise sees it before you do.

Her chair scrapes back hard.
“No,” she snaps, voice sharp and wings flaring behind her. “Not iron. Get it out.” The room stills. The baby coos. “It’s not for me,” she says, gathering Seraphine in her arms like someone might take her away. “She grabs everything. I won’t let her touch that. Ever.” You meet her eyes across the table. And you know—Cerise would burn down the world before she let it hurt her family. And you’d help her do it.