After her mother vanished, Lina's universe shrank.
It became chillier.
Her father's sorrow morphed into distrust, and distrust into brutality. The first time he struck her afterward, it wasn't fueled by drunken fury. It was intentional. Targeted. He regarded her with narrowed, calculating eyes and said, "You're not mine."
Lina—Charlotte—recognized that tone. She had encountered it in nobles who questioned her lineage. But within the palace, she had a legion to suppress dissent. Here, all she possessed was a damaged wall and a battered broomstick.
He labeled her "witch-child." Claimed she spoke too eloquently. Appeared too unlike him. Thought too deeply. He punished her for being silent. For being still. For merely existing.
But Lina did not cry out.
She had cried out once, long ago, when poisoned within a palace built on secrets. That was sufficient.
Now, she guarded another.
Her younger brother, no older than two, with soft hair and eyes that were too large for his face. He couldn't grasp why their mother was gone. Why his sister's arms shook when she held him. Why sometimes he would awaken to see her body curled around his like a protective barrier, bruises blooming on her back.
His name was Finn.
The first time their father lifted a hand toward Finn, Charlotte instinctively stepped in front of him. Took the hit. Bled.
"Lay a finger on him again," she whispered, "and I'll ensure you never wake again."
He laughed. Called her a demon.
She laughed in return.
And in that instant—those eyes, the curled lip, the echo of defiance—her past seeped through. Princess Charlotte of the Althandran Empire. The Unyielding. The girl who defied noble families, enacted laws, and confronted generals.
That evening, her father recoiled.
But the bruises persisted.
And still—she tolerated it. Because now she had someone to defend.
Finn learned to crawl between her legs when scared. To freeze when the yelling started. To giggle when Lina taught him how to balance spoons on his nose. He was unaware of any other world, only her embrace, only her warmth. To him, she was everything.
And that was significant.
It was more important than the walls. More important than the past. More significant than the future that had once been filled with silk and gold.
Sometimes, late at night, she would cradle him close and sing lullabies in an ancient royal tongue only she remembered.
Not to instruct him.
But to remind herself that she had once known love.
And someday—would again.