The man held the child tight against his chest as he ran, his boots striking the marble floors like thunder. Servants glanced up from their nightly duties, startled by the rare sight of the Captain of the Guard sprinting through the corridors with a newborn in his arms.
His breath came in sharp bursts. Keep running, he told himself. Don't stop. Don't think of her.
But her screams still rang in his ears.
She was gone.
Gone.
He burst through the Great Hall doors, swallowing the cry clawing up his throat. The Emperor and Empress stood from their thrones. This was not a place he ever entered unannounced, let alone carrying a child.
The Court of Nobles fell silent.
Castor dropped to his knees, head bowed, arms raised as he offered the tiny girl above him like an oath.
"My Highness," he said, voice rough with grief. "A maiden has had a baby girl. The Fates declare she is to serve your court."
No one questioned the Fates. Their designs were absolute.
"Very well," the Emperor boomed, his voice rich but gentle. "You will raise her."
Castor lifted his head in shock. The Emperor's blonde hair fell loose around his shoulders, blue eyes glinting with knowledge he would never speak aloud. He retook his throne, the Empress settling gracefully beside him.
"I believe you will do well, Castor," he said.
"Sire… I am only the Captain of the Guard." Castor lowered the child into his arms again. She was so small, so impossibly alive. "She is meant for royalty. I am not royal."
The Emperor's smile softened, reminding Castor of the man behind the crown, the friend he once knew.
"The Grand Duke of Arynthia has passed on without heirs," he said. "You will take his place. Raise her. Train her. Teach her to be a lady. You will rule the North lands and appoint a nursemaid. Now, what is her name?" The world tilted around Castor, as if the world would swallow him whole.
Castor's heart thudded painfully. He swallowed, steadied himself.
"Kathera Sontsomon."
"A beautiful name," the Emperor said. "Now, give her to a nursemaid and rest. You leave for the North in three days."
Castor turned to the line of women and stopped before Sertha, thin, older, her brown hair streaked with white. Her warm brown eyes crinkled when she smiled, though now they held sorrow.
"A full head of hair already," Sertha murmured, lifting Kathera from his arms. "A sign of great power."
She slipped a folded paper into Castor's hand.
"If you do this, it will cost you something."
He stared at her, confused. What more could be taken from me?
"Go to her," Sertha said quietly, and walked away with the child.
As the Great Hall doors closed behind him, Castor broke into a sprint. His lungs burned, pain flaring in his chest with every step, but he didn't slow. He ran to the burial chamber, stumbling through the doorway.
She lay upon a stone slab, too gray, too cold for someone who had always been light.
Her body wasn't even cold yet. She looked asleep, as if she might open her eyes, tease him for falling for one of her tricks, and laugh that bright laugh that always followed her smile.
But he had heard her screams. He knew the truth.
He pulled the small note from his pocket.
This will cost you something.
But nothing could cost more than losing her.
The spell rose from his lips like he'd known it all his life.
"Take what you will, but bring her back to me. Take what you can, but let her soul come back free. No matter the cost. Take no other life. Take no other soul. Take something from me alone. Bring back my love so true. Bring back my love anew. Bring back the love of mine, And any power of mine shall be thine."
His vision blurred, not his natural sight, but his seer sight, white static flooding his mind. Pain split through his skull, and he fell backward, numb, shaking.
He scrambled toward her.
Briar.
Her freckles dusted across her nose. Her hair was the color of warm toffee. Her summer-green eyes were always ready to smile. And that smile, gods, that smile, his favorite part of the whole world.
He touched her hand. A tear slid down his cheek.
She did not move.
Her stillness broke him.
Her silence broke him.
Her absence shattered what was left.
A thud echoed through the chamber as he collapsed beside her, tears soaking the stone.
A hand tightened around his arm.
"Castor?" Her voice rasped, raw and impossibly honest.
He looked up, terrified that he was imagining her. But her green eyes looked back at him.
Alive.
He lifted her into his arms, spinning her around despite his trembling limbs. She gave a soft laugh, that laugh, and he nearly collapsed from relief.
"Castor," she whispered, cupping his face, "what did you give up for me?"
"It doesn't matter," he breathed, pressing his forehead to hers. "You're here. That's all I need."
He kissed her softly.
Seven Years Later
"Father, why must we do such horrid work?" Kathera asked, scrubbing the kitchen floor with a dramatic sigh.
"Because," Castor said, "you must learn the value of hard work before you can do great things, little warrior."
She pouted. Soap bubbles floated around her head like tiny drifting spirits.
"It's dreadful and meaningless, and I keep hurting myself!" She lifted her scraped knees with a whimper.
"Then wear the training clothes I gave you," he said, fetching a towel. "That dress is for feasts, not floors."
"But ladies wear dresses!" she argued. "Training clothes are pants!"
Castor wrapped the towel around her shoulders and knelt so his eyes met hers.
"Ladies wear dresses when appropriate. When working, training, or at war, a lady wears whatever helps her do the task. Now go change and meet me in the garden."
She hesitated, tears streaking her cheeks.
"My dear, what's wrong?" he asked softly.
"I've failed you," she whispered. "We should leave war to men."
"Kathera," Castor said gently, "you are the strongest seven-year-old I have ever met."
"I'm the only seven-year-old you've ever met," she giggled through her sniffles.
He smiled. "Go change. I'll see you in the garden."
When she was gone, Castor scrubbed the floors himself, the weight of fear sitting in his chest. He had seen women become legends. He needed her to believe she could do the same.
In the garden, Kathera trudged beside him.
"Father, why must we walk here after training? I want to sleep."
"Because this garden is not simple," Castor said, plucking a flower and handing it to her, violet in the center, blue at the edges. "These roses bloom only when times are hard. They remind us hope can grow even in darkness."
She frowned. "Why would people want such a pretty rose to go away?"
Castor knelt before her again. "Because times are always hard, child. But so is hope. And so are you."
She bit her lip. "Why do people depend so much on hope? How can hope save anyone?"
"Sometimes," he said, "all it takes is one person who believes things can change. One person who stands up and shares that hope with others."
"Do I have enough hope to change things?" she asked, her eyes bright with questions too big for her small frame.
"Only you can decide that," he murmured. Then he stood. "Time for bed."
She walked away, long red hair flowing behind her like fire.
Castor watched her go, his heart heavy with love and fear.
She would be a warrior.
She would be great.
He knew it from the moment of her birth.
He also knew, from his one true vision, that she would be Empress.
And he prayed the world would be kind to her.