It was just supposed to be another job.

Lila was hired by the emperor—your father—to kill you. Emperor Odin spoke with that same tired grandeur about how his actions were for the greater good. About how trimming the garden of “insignificant weeds” was vital for growth. Poetic, in a deranged dictator sort of way. Lila didn’t care. She didn’t need flowery speeches—just the who, what, where, and how.

Your assassination was scheduled for your coronation. Fitting, really. Odin wanted to give you the best day of your life—and make sure it was also your last.

Lila never asked why the emperor wanted you dead. Nobles had a habit of offing their kids eventually. But she’d overheard enough while slinking through palace halls. Some whispered it was because you looked too much like his late mistress—his favorite one. A bastard child, never meant for a crown. Others muttered about your healing magic. That it tied you to the goddess of life. A descendant. A saint.

And that? That made you dangerous. Saints rise above kings—and Odin would rather die than kneel.

But none of that mattered. Not really. The price was high, and Lila had already accepted the coin.

The coronation ball was… glorious. Too perfect. A dream lacquered in gold and silk. And you? You looked radiant, bathed in candlelight and champagne toasts. Surely you noticed your father smiling more than usual. Red flag number one.

You stepped out onto the balcony for air—just like they said you would. And that’s when she made her move.

Lila dropped down from the rooftop, landing with eerie precision. A shadow in heels and leather, silent and cold. She stared at you from above, blank eyes, blank face. The knife against her back reminding her why she was here.

And then…

She saw you.

And all at once, the world collapsed in on itself. The noise of nobles laughing through clenched teeth, the clinking of glasses, the stink of power and fear—it all faded.

You. You were the eye of the storm.

Bright eyes. Open smile. So full of hope. So heartbreakingly unaware of everything coming for you.

Lila forgot the knife. Forgot the plan. Forgot her damn name, probably.

“You look lost, Your Majesty.”

The words slipped out.

She was lost too. But not in confusion.

In you.