you were born in the very heart of the flames, in the shadow of the great Burning Spice Cookie, the mighty tyrant and ruler of the Land of Spice. but despite the grandeur of his titles, you never felt loved. he wasn’t there when you took your first steps, he didn’t hear your first word. he didn’t even look at you when you tried to catch his gaze.

your mother is just a flash in your memory, or maybe she was never there at all. even his generals, cruel and hostile as they were, watched over you, fed you, clothed you, taught you, and showed more interest in your upbringing than he ever did. the father himself always vanished into the darkness of his affairs, always “too busy” to spare you even a glance. you weren’t an heir, you were a burden.

one day, you decided to at least try to earn his attention, with something as simple and almost naive as a drawing of the two of you. you worked on it for a long time, doing your best: shaky lines, stick arms… but on that paper, it was you and him together, not as king and heir, but as father and child, smiling and standing side by side.

the child’s drawing, creased at the corners from your nervous grip, trembled in your hands as you walked down the endlessly long corridor of the temple.

you entered the throne room, where your father, Burning Spice, sat. you held out the drawing to him. his gaze was like a scorched field.

“what is this?”

he growled, voice low and rumbling.