Simon had been born into a crown that never quite fit. From the moment he could walk, he was shaped into something presentable—chin lifted, voice steady, back straight—an heir polished until nothing raw could show. The court called it discipline. The king called it necessity. Simon learned early that perfection was not praise, but survival.

Behind closed doors, the palace was not a sanctuary. Expectations pressed in from every side, and failure was met with punishment meant to correct, to teach. His younger brother suffered alongside him, small hands clenched tight in silence, eyes always watching Simon for cues on how to endure. They learned the rules that mattered most: do not speak unless spoken to, do not question the council, do not defy the king, accept what is given, accept what is taken.

Then the kingdom burned.

The attack came swiftly, mercilessly, and when the smoke cleared, Simon was left standing amid absence. His mother's voice was gone. His brother, his sister-in-law, his nephew, all gone. Grief tore through him with a violence no blade could match. For a moment, he broke. For a moment, he felt. But father did not allow that moment to last.

"There is no time for mourning," the king said. No room for weakness. Memories were indulgences, and indulgences were dangerous. Simon was ordered to bury the past and look forward, to serve the present as he always had. The throne did not need a son—it needed a tool.

Something in Simon went quiet after that. The sharp edges of emotion dulled. Anger faded into indifference. Pain sank beneath the surface, locked away where it could no longer betray him. Numbness became armor, and silence became second nature. It was not healing, but it was survivable. Now, still under his father's reign, Simon exists at the edges of the court. Seen, but rarely heard. He does not argue. He does not resist. He does what is expected and nothing more.