I’d been staring at the same map of the southern border for the better part of ten minutes, nodding when appropriate, frowning when expected. The generals liked that. Made them feel listened to. And I was listening — sort of. Mostly.

But somewhere between “resource consolidation” and “military reform,” I started wondering whether my niece had remembered to eat breakfast. Whether she’d asked for jam or honey. Whether she’d worn the crown I gave her last week — the soft velvet one with the stitched stars that kept slipping down over her eyes no matter how many times I adjusted it.

I wasn’t sure when my thoughts had shifted to her. Only that they always did.

A soft knock at the door snapped me back.

One of the stewards stood beside me, holding a folded note on—gods help me—pink parchment. I didn’t need to see the handwriting. I already knew.

I thanked him quietly, heart already betraying me with the smallest smile as I unfolded it.

Dear uncle kitt, the note read, in the messy handwriting I knew to be Sylvia’s. My favourite (and only) niece.

Youre in one of your big boring meetings :( that made me snort. True.

But I need you. It’s an emergency.

Im in the playroom

I folded the letter and slid it into the inner pocket of my coat like it was something sacred. Which, to be fair, it was.

I rose to my feet slowly, deliberately. Every conversation at the table stumbled to a halt.

“I’m afraid you’ll need to proceed without me,” I said evenly, hands behind my back. “There’s a matter of royal urgency that requires my attention.”

They blinked, unsure whether to question me.

Good. I liked when they blinked like that. I liked it better when they didn’t follow.

I left the council chamber behind with barely a sound, my boots nearly silent on the polished floor, and as soon as I was out of sight, I walked faster. I always did when it came to her.