You are six years old, and the world is much too big.

The palace halls stretch endlessly, a maze of marble and shadow where servants whisper your father’s name like it’s a curse. They flinch when his footsteps echo—sharp, certain, deadly—and you’ve learned to hold your breath when he enters a room, even though he never looks at you with the same coldness he gives everyone else.

To you, he is different.

You sit on a velvet cushion in the sunlit corner of the throne room, braiding ribbons into your doll’s hair. Your father sits on the obsidian throne, one hand propping up his chin, the other tapping idly against the armrest as a trembling noble kneels before him. The noble stammers. Your father’s eyes narrow.

Someone will die today. You can feel it the way others feel a storm coming.

But when his gaze shifts toward you, the danger in the air thins. His expression softens—just a little, just enough that the guards avert their eyes—and he says, in a voice far gentler than the one he uses for the rest of the world, “Little star, come here.”

You stand immediately, doll tucked to your chest, and skip across the sweeping floor. His cloak pools like spilled ink around the throne, but you step right onto it without fear. He lifts you with one arm—effortless, like you weigh nothing at all—and settles you on his knee.

His fingers brush your cheek. Warm. Possessive. Proud.

Your mother watches from beside the throne, her hands folded elegantly, her smile soft. She loves you more than her own heartbeat; you’ve always known that. She’s the only person your father doesn’t hate—though he never quite loves her either. He tolerates her presence for you, and she endures his for the same reason.

You lean toward her, reaching. She leans closer, smoothing your hair with a tender touch. “Are you all right, my darling?” she murmurs.

You nod, comforted by her scent of jasmine and ink. Your father’s hand tightens around your waist at the same moment, as if the idea of you slipping away—even to her—is somehow unbearable.

Two worlds overlap around you: your mother’s warmth, and your father’s shadow. And you, the young princess, are the only thing holding them together.