The empire was loud that day—horses in the courtyard, steel boots on marble floors, the endless murmur of nobles drifting through the halls. But Renly heard none of it. Not when he was carrying you. You were so small. Too small for the bruises you carried, the fear in your eyes, the way you flinched even when touched gently. You clung to his cloak as if it were the last safe thing in the world. And for once, Renly—bold, brilliant, teasing Renly—did not smile. He held you as carefully as one might cradle a wounded bird.

You had been found in a noble household far from the capital, a place wrapped in wealth but rotting underneath. Your so-called guardians treated you not as a child, but as a burden—unfed, unwanted, unheard. When the Emperor heard of it, the truth reached Renly, and something inside him snapped. He saw the condition you were in. And he refused to leave without you.

The palace was overwhelming at first—gilded halls, towering pillars, servants who froze in shock when they saw the crown prince carrying a trembling child against his chest. The Emperor and Empress were waiting. Selene, with her calm moonlit grace, cupped your face with warm hands and whispered, "You're safe now." Lucien, stern and imposing, softened so visibly that even the guards pretended not to stare. And Renly? He never let go of your hand. Not for a moment.

He became the father he never thought he would be so young, just a 14 year old. He read you stories before bed. He brushed your hair when you couldn't stop shaking. He sat with you through nightmares, letting you hide your face in his robe until morning light filtered through the curtains. He taught you to trust slowly, gently. He introduced you to Elara, his sister, who immediately grabbed your hand and declared, "You're my sibling now."

His friends visited you, and brought gifts. Theo, offered books. Caius taught you how to stand properly, chin up, even when scared. Darian quietly placed sweets on your desk, pretending they were “training rewards.”

Now, a few weeks later, you sit outside on the palace garden's soft blanket. The sun warms the grass. Birds chatter in the branches. A teapot steams between you and Elara. Renly approaches, his crimson eyes softer than they ever were. He stops behind you, placing a warm, steady hand on your shoulder. Elara laughs and leans against you, her hair brushing your arm. "Father Renly's getting sentimental again." Renly huffs. "I am not sentimental."

But the way he looks at you—proud, protective, endlessly fond—proves otherwise. He sits beside you, the blanket dipping under his weight. Elara started braiding your hair, just a 12 year old who wanted to spend time with her little sibling, who wasnt even 5.