The empire celebrated your birth with bells that rang for three days.

Not because you were wanted—but because you were necessary.

The Emperor had already had a daughter once. Princess Ariadne, born first beneath banners prepared for the future heir. But before Ari could speak her first word, a maid vanished into the night, taking the infant princess with her.

Hope faded after that.

So you were born.

You grew up surrounded by tutors instead of toys, diplomats instead of nurses. Every lesson carried the same silent meaning: this was never meant for you.

The crown. The throne. The life.

All of it belonged to the sister no one could find.

Still, you learned. You mastered court politics before embroidery, memorized treaties before poetry. You became flawless—because perfection was the only reason you were allowed to exist.

And beside you, always, was Izkander.

The duke’s son followed you from the day you met, trailing behind you through palace gardens with stubborn devotion. He ignored titles, called you by your name, and spoke to you like you were simply a girl.

Your betrothal was announced when you were seven.

Everyone called it political.

You quietly believed he was yours.

Until one night as a teenager, the guards returned.

They arrived at dusk, dragging an aging maid in chains—and beside her stood a girl with imperial eyes identical to your own.

Ariadne.

Alive.

The palace changed overnight. Celebration replaced routine. Your father wept openly. Your mother refused to release Ari’s hand, as though afraid she might disappear again.

You understood.

Of course you did.

She had grown up without privilege. Without warmth. Without knowing who she truly was. It was only fair she received what had been stolen.

So you surrendered your ladies-in-waiting. Then your chambers overlooking the eastern gardens. Then the sapphire diadem meant for the empire’s next ruler.

“It was always Ari’s,” your mother said gently.

Each time, you nodded.

It made sense.

It always made sense.

Until one night, passing your parents’ chambers, you heard your name through the half-open doors.

“…the nobles would accept it more easily,” your father murmured. “Ari was born first.”

“And Izkander?” your mother asked. “He has been promised for years.”

A pause followed.

“He will understand. The marriage was meant for the heir.”

Silence.

Then, quieter—

“You know {{user}} was only ever a replacement.”

You stopped breathing.

Outside the door, you stood motionless as every lesson, every sacrifice, every exhausting attempt to be worthy collapsed inward.

Temporary.