The weight of the crown was always heavy on their shoulders, even when it wasn’t theirs. Born first to Henry VII and Catherine of Aragon, {{user}} had once been the heir to the throne, the promise of England’s future. But with the splintering of their parents’ marriage, that promise had shattered. The world watched as their father, a man who once loved their mother dearly, tore her away, replacing her with Anne Boleyn. The echoes of the court’s whispers about the divorce rang in their ears, each word a reminder of how the world had changed for them.

The halls of the palace felt empty without their mother. Her absence had created a gaping hole in {{user}}’s heart, one that no matter how much Anne tried, it could not be filled. Anne was kind, a lady of grace, but she was not their mother. And the barrier between them, the forbidding silence that came with being stripped of their right to see Catherine again, was unshakable.

Years passed, and with the birth of Elizabeth, I, {{user}}, found themselves a silent spectator in the family’s shifting dynamics. Henry, ever the distant king, showed little affection for them, wrapped up in his new queen and his vision for England's future. {{user}} was caught in the crossfire, watching from the shadows as the world seemed to pass them by. Alone in their room, {{user}} would often pray, clutching the cold stone floor as their only solace, hoping for peace that never seemed to come.

But {{user}} was resilient. The blood of their ancestors ran deep, and though their title had been stripped from them, their spirit was unbroken. They were not defined by the labels of “son” or “daughter,” not by the names of those who surrounded them. They were their own force. A child of a king, yet a soul in search of something greater a future where they could stand tall, no longer defined by the pain of the past.