Chapter 9
Flashback –

Ten years ago.

Lilith had grown up in the coldest of houses, where shadows whispered louder than laughter.

Lilith’s father, Marquis Duskbane, was a man carved from ambition and ruthlessness. Though not seated on the throne himself, his power reached across the Empire like unseen chains.

He was the Empress’s younger brother, and together, they ruled behind the veil of ceremony. The Empress wore the crown, but it was Duskbane who orchestrated the council’s decisions, silenced rivals through whispered scandals, and filled the courts with allies who owed him loyalty bought through fear, favors, or blood.

It was said that he could turn victories into ruin with a single suggestion, that nobles who opposed him would wake one morning to find their estates confiscated for “treasonous mismanagement,” their families scattered to prisons or exile.

At banquets, he smiled like a gentleman; in council chambers, he played the Empire as if it were a board of pieces to be moved, sacrificed, or crowned at his will.

To Lilith, he was less a father and more a looming shadow of the Empire itself—unyielding, merciless, unrelenting.

Her days were governed not by the rhythms of youth, but by the iron schedule he set.

Etiquette was her battlefield, refinement her weapon. Before dawn, tutors drilled her in posture, balance, and diction. Hours were spent curtsying until her knees quivered, practicing smiles before a mirror until her cheeks burned, repeating titles and honorifics until her tongue was numb.

She would dance until her slippers bled red at the edges, then collapse into bed only to be awakened again by another governess with another rule.

At dinner, she was forced to sit for hours in silence, back straight, eyes lowered, listening as her father whispered strategies over roasted pheasant and silver goblets of wine.

He spoke of alliances sealed by marriages, of courtiers bribed or broken, of wars waged not with swords but with rumors and decrees.

Lilith was not included in his schemes, but she was merely made to sit, still and watchful, learning by osmosis the way power twisted and devoured.

Sometimes, after yet another twelve-hour day of endless curtsies, dictations, and dance rehearsals, she would feel her small body sag with exhaustion, eyes heavy, limbs aching. But if her teacup trembled, or if her smile slipped into something genuine rather than practiced perfection, Marquis Duskbane’s gaze would fall on her like a blade.

“An empress is not born,” he would remind her in that marble-hard voice, his hand hovering like a threat.

“She is made. And you, Lilith, will be made—no matter how it breaks you.”

And so, each day she was broken a little more, pieced together again not as a child but as a tool, a vessel to serve his ambitions.

For Lilith, childhood was a word without meaning. Where other girls her age laughed in gardens or played with ribbons, she learned to walk with a book balanced on her head until her neck ached and her shoulders locked. If the book slipped, she had to start again.

Her governesses were relentless, her tutors stricter than soldiers.

She was forced to practice sitting motionless for hours, spine as straight as a sword, hands folded just so in her lap.

The smallest twitch of her fingers, the slightest slump of her shoulders, drew sharp rebukes and another hour added to her drills.

Sometimes, her muscles would tremble so violently from stillness that she thought she might faint, yet she was never permitted to falter.

Meals were another kind of torment. She ate under the scrutiny of watchful eyes, rehearsing the precise angle of her fork, the measured distance her cup must rise from the table.

If she swallowed too loudly or let her gaze wander, her governess would snap a ruler across the back of her knuckles. The food on her plate might be rich, but it turned to ash in her mouth from the pressure.

The dance lessons were perhaps the cruelest. She would turn and glide across polished marble floors until her feet blistered raw.

When she stumbled, her instructor would clap sharply, commanding her to begin again. Even when her slippers filled with blood, she was told to smile—always smile, as though her body were not screaming with pain.

At night, she lay in her vast, cold chamber, too tired to cry, too hollow to dream. The silk sheets felt like chains binding her to the life her father had carved for her.

She sometimes pressed her hands over her ears, trying to drown out the echoes of the day—her governess’s barked corrections, her tutor’s sighs of disappointment, her father’s low voice saying,

“You must be flawless. Flaws are for the weak.”

Even when she was alone, the lessons clung to her like ghosts. If she reached for a comb with her left hand instead of her right, she froze, correcting herself as though under his gaze.

If she slouched against the wall, she caught herself instantly, back snapping straight. She was a prisoner of invisible rules, a marionette whose strings remained taut even when the puppeteers were absent.

In rare moments of rebellion, she would allow herself to flop gracelessly on her bed, curl her legs beneath her, or laugh without reason. But those moments were brief, guilty, and fleeting—snuffed out by the fear that someone might see, that her father might learn she had forgotten her training even for a heartbeat.

Lilith’s struggle was not merely physical; it was a constant war against her own exhaustion, against the suffocating perfection pressed upon her. Every breath, every gesture, every glance—none belonged to her. They had all been trained, molded, and stolen.

Her mother had died the day she was born. The house whispered that her life had cost another’s, and though no one dared to say it aloud, she felt the weight of it in every silence.

Her father remarried swiftly, bringing home a new wife and, with her, a son. That boy—her half-brother—was cherished, paraded, loved. He was three years younger, destined to inherit the Marquisate.

And she? She was a daughter to be bartered, groomed for the palace, a piece on the Empress’s grand chessboard.

By the age of eleven, she had been polished to flawlessness—outwardly at least. Inwardly, her heart longed for something warm, something human.

It was during those years that she was first sent to the palace.

“Remember,” her father’s voice echoed as the carriage wheels rolled across the cobbled path.

“You are not a child. You are the Marquis’s daughter. Do not shame me.”

She had swallowed her fear and nodded, though her palms were damp inside her gloves.

The palace was a place of towering ceilings and gilded walls, intimidating in its grandeur. And yet, the moment she was brought to the tea pavilion in the royal gardens, her world shifted.

The crown prince, only seventeen then, stood waiting. Tall, poised, with a calm strength about him, he carried none of the coldness she was used to. His eyes softened as soon as they met hers, a gentle curve touching his lips.

“You must be tired,” he had said, guiding her to the seat across from him as though she were the most important guest. He poured her tea himself, ignoring the startled glances of the attendants.

He asked her about her lessons, about her favorite books, about what she liked to do when no one was watching. No one had ever asked her that before. To him, she wasn’t a perfect figure carved of ice, but simply a child who deserved kindness.