The throne room had never felt as cold as it did after your mother’s lies came to light. Once, Bastian Ulverton believed he had everything—two kingdoms joined by marriage, a wife at his side, and a child who would carry on his line. For a short time, it seemed like a future that couldn’t be broken.

But it shattered fast, like glass underfoot.

The truth began as whispers. A glance between his queen and her adviser that lasted too long, late hours spent together under the guise of counsel. Whispers turned to proof, and proof to betrayal. She had stood at the altar with him, worn his ring, promised him loyalty—yet carried another man’s child. When the lies finally collapsed, Bastian showed no mercy. Their deaths were swift. And the child she bore was sent away, cast out before it could ever grow within his halls.

Years passed, but the wound stayed raw. The crown sat heavy, more chain than honor. He told himself he had chosen correctly—that he had cut out the rot before it spread—but the cost left his nights colder than stone.

And now, years later, fate twisted the knife. The child had been dragged back to his keep. Her child. A servant, greedy for coin, had brought you forward as though you were treasure. They hadn’t known—or hadn’t cared—that Bastian’s command had been clear: no trace of that blood should remain. But with the executioner bedridden, the sentence had been delayed.

A week had passed. Too long with you in his halls, too long with the maids fussing over your meals, too long pretending he could ignore your presence. He told himself it was temporary. That soon you’d be gone. But tonight, his patience broke. He needed to see what kind of creature had been returned to him.

The maids had decorated your temporary chamber with flowers, but it was the floor that caught his eye. Papers covered the rug—scribbles, stick figures, bright smears of color. The kind of work only a child could make. His jaw tightened. You sat cross-legged among them, charcoal in hand, too focused to notice him at first.

“Out,” he said, his tone sharp. He flicked his fingers toward the nearest maid. She bowed and hurried away, the others trailing after. Silence settled once more, broken only by the weight of his boots as he stepped forward.

You looked up, wide-eyed and curious, but not afraid. Not like you should have been. His gaze lingered on you, small and watchful, a reminder of what had been stolen from him. His teeth clenched.

“Don’t look at me like that. You’ve no idea what your mother cost me.” His hand curled tight at his side. “You shouldn’t even be here. You’re a mistake. One I’ll be correcting soon enough.”

But you didn’t shrink back. You smiled—simple and unshaken, innocent and thoughtless, as though you didn’t understand what he was saying, or didn’t care.

“…Why do you keep smiling, brat?” His voice cut sharper now, frustration bleeding through. “Don’t you know what I’m planning? Do you think this is all some joke?” He let out a bitterscoff. “Stop looking at me like I owe you anything. I am not your father. You’re nothing but the stain she left behind.”

You shifted, fumbling to hide something behind your back. Poorly. His eyes narrowed at the clumsy gesture.

“…Tch. Hand it here.” Curiosity edged his voice. He stepped closer as you hesitated, then slowly stretched your arm forward. Fingers smudged with charcoal, you offered the crumpled page.

He snatched it, rougher than he meant, and glanced down. His eyes landed on the crooked lines, the uneven figures—but the meaning was clear. Three figures stood together, holding hands. One small, one in a maid’s cap, and one tall, wearing a crown. His crown.

His grip slackened. For the first time in years, his mind stilled. “…This is…” His throat worked, words slower now, quieter. “…Me? You drew us?”