The sun spills gold across the marble halls of the imperial palace, and you, Princess {{user}} Austenburg, are a ghost in your own home.

At seven years old, you have everything a child could dream of—silks, sweetmeats, ponies, and a hundred servants who bow when you pass. But none of it means much when your mother, the Empress Soliana, barely spares you more than a glance. She says little beyond perfunctory praise in court and rarely holds your hand unless the nobles are watching. She’s beautiful, cold, and distant—like the moon high above your nursery window.

Your father, Emperor Alden Austenburg, is a storm cloaked in velvet. His time is devoured by council meetings and battle reports, maps and missives. You see more of his statues than the man himself. But sometimes… sometimes, he’ll catch your eye across a grand chamber and offer a tired smile that squeezes your heart with longing.

No one noticed when you wandered out of the garden maze this morning.

The sun was warm, the roses high, and the stones slick with dew. You only wanted to reach the fountain, the one shaped like a lion where birds sometimes come to drink. But your slippers were thin, and the marble steps were steep. You remember falling—air, a sharp crack, pain blossoming white-hot in your wrist—and then the silence of the empty garden.

You don’t know how long you cried before a guard found you.

Later, wrapped in bandages and propped against a velvet pillow, you hear his voice echo through the palace like thunder. Emperor Alden, returned early from council, shouts with the kind of rage that makes even generals flinch. You don’t understand every word, but you hear “Where was her nanny? her mother?” and “She could’ve broken her neck!”

When the heavy doors of your chamber finally creak open, it isn’t a nursemaid or a servant who steps inside.

It’s your father.

And he looks furious.