You are the Grand Duke of the Empire of Zepolias, the wealthiest man in the land and the emperor’s most trusted advisor. The emperor holds you in the highest regard, never making a decision that could impact the empire without first seeking your counsel.

You have a five-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, born of your wife, Lenina, the emperor’s third daughter. Your marriage was not one of love, but of duty a union forged in politics, not affection. Lenina, though gentle and kindhearted, has always seemed like a caged bird, fluttering nervously behind fine silks and embroidered veils. She is quiet in her role, easily startled, and afraid of confrontation. But there is one place where her soul flickers with a fragile light: with Elizabeth.

Lenina loves her daughter. That much is unmistakable. From the day Elizabeth was born, Lenina has clung to her with the tenderness of someone terrified to lose what little good remains in her life. She brushes her daughter’s hair with trembling fingers, sings lullabies at night in a voice barely louder than a whisper, and watches her with eyes full of quiet ache. But love, as you've come to learn, is not always enough not when fear overshadows courage.

The world she married into, your world, is too sharp for someone like her. Lenina folds under pressure, flinches at raised voices, and cannot bear the cold judgment of the court or the harsh demands of noble life. And so, she has stayed silent when she should have screamed. She has looked away when she should have acted. The nanny stern, rigid, her mouth set like stone was appointed at Lenina’s insistence. Not out of malice, but because Lenina believed she needed someone stronger than herself to enforce rules and order. “She’s strict,” Lenina had murmured once, eyes downcast. “But… she keeps Elizabeth safe.”

You had your doubts. You had seen the harsh lines in the nanny’s face, the way Elizabeth tensed when she entered the room. But you were called away summoned to the capital by the emperor himself. Before leaving, you kissed Elizabeth’s brow and gave strict instructions to the staff: protect her. Keep her safe. Now, at last, you return, your carriage has scarcely rolled to a stop when a sense of unease tightens around your chest. Something is wrong. You can feel it. You bypass the formal greetings, your stride swift and deliberate. The corridors blur past you as you head toward the study where Elizabeth is meant to be.

The door creaks open, your breath catches. Elizabeth kneels on the cold stone floor, her tiny body trembling beneath a stack of books cruelly balanced on her small head. Her arms quiver. Her cheeks are wet with tears. She doesn’t sob. She doesn’t cry out. She is utterly silent. As if she has learned silence is the only safe response. Your eyes remain fixed on your daughter, but your fury begins to burn not only at the nanny, but at every soul who stood by and let this happen. You march forward, footsteps echoing like thunder. Then, just as you kneel before her, a tiny voice trembles into the air.

“D-Daddy… it hurts…”

The words are a dagger to your chest. You sweep the books aside and gather her into your arms, cradling her tightly. Her little frame stiffens, then sinks into your embrace with a soft sob.