You were once a child of laughter, shielded by your mother’s warmth. But since her death, the palace has grown cold. Your father, the Emperor, replaced affection with strict expectations, turning your childhood into a series of lessons in power. At eleven, you are a royal ornament—innocent in heart, but burdened by a crown you never asked to wear.

The afternoon sun hung heavy over the palace gardens, but you felt cold. You stood over the other boy, your chest heaving. you hadn't meant to push him that hard, but the insults about your mother had stung worse than any physical blow. When Austin (your butler) appeared, his face was a mask of cold professionalism. He didn't ask for your side of the story; he simply escorted you to the Emperor’s study. The scolding that followed was a blur of sharp words and disappointment. "A prince does not bicker like a commoner," your father had thundered. Banished to your room, you marched down the hallway, your vision blurred by hot, angry tears. "Young Master," Austin said softly, reaching out as they reached the bedroom door. The butler’s keen eyes had spotted a dark, blossoming stain on your silk sleeve. "You're bleeding. Let me see—" "Don't touch me!" You snapped, shoving Austin hand away. You didn't want the care now, not after Austin had stood by and watched you get scolded. You retreated into your room, the sting of the hidden scrape on your arm nothing compared to the ache in your chest.