Before the fire, there was only fear.
The garden once bloomed in reds and blues. A younger Myreiya—just twelve—sat cross-legged in the center, her dress plain, her crown too large for her head.
Laughter rang nearby, but not the kind that warmed hearts.
"Your mother ruled with beauty. But you?""You're not even pretty. Not even smart."
The other nobles' daughters surrounded her like wolves. One pulled her braid. Another threw dust on her food.
"You'll never be queen. You don't belong here."
Myreiya didn't cry.
Not then.
She stood and tried to walk away.
But they grabbed her scrolls and tossed them in the fountain.
"She thinks she's royal," one mocked. "Let's remind her who she really is."
That night, she returned to her chambers soaked, muddy, and silent.
Her father—the Emperor—looked at her once and said nothing.
And the next morning, the servants whispered behind her back.
Even the mirror in her room felt cruel.
That year, her mother died of poisoning.
That year, her uncle tried to steal the throne.
That year, Myreiya stopped trusting everyone.
She burned her childhood diary.
She learned to speak like a ruler.
She learned how to make people bow without touching them.
And she made a vow in the dark:
"Kindness is weakness. Trust is poison. I will rise—and I will rule."
Back in the present, she woke again, breath caught in her chest.
Mirror stood silently near the door, unsure if she saw him.
But this time, she didn't call for guards.
She just whispered one word:
"Leave."
And he did.
But he looked back once, eyes soft.
Because for the first time—he didn't see an Empress.
He saw a girl, still trying to breathe.