I remembered the story I had written in the isolation of Black Hollow, a kingdom of cruelty etched in ink and despair. The Crimson Court—my masterpiece, my confession, my prison of imagination. It all began with Emperor Kael Vetras, the tyrant who ruled with a fist of iron wrapped in velvet. He was ruthless, brilliant, and terrifying, a man who could unmake a city with a word. He had two sons: Lucien, the cold, calculating heir; and Cassian, the fire-born shadow who laughed in the face of danger.

In my story, the empire’s ambition had turned outward. The Bismithian Isles, floating islands suspended over a boiling ocean, had perfected air travel when the rest of the world still clung to the sea. Their ships were alive—creatures twisted by magic into blimps and dragons with sails for wings. They resisted the Vetrasian Empire, and war came. The Boiling Isle War. Lucien, always the blade, fell first to a hero whose name I had carved into my notebooks like a prayer. A hero who dared defy the tyrant and survive long enough to challenge him. I had written that hero’s fall with the same precision I had wielded knives once: swift, elegant, and merciless.

Kael Vetras hunted him with the fury of a storm. No mercy, no hesitation. The hero’s death was only a single beat in a symphony of violence—an opening flourish that signaled what was to come: betrayals, assassinations, rebellions, and the endless cruelty of a court that thrived on fear. That was the part I was circling in my memory now, in the quiet of my nursery. I pictured the palace towers, the golden walls, the banners waving in the wind as if even the air feared the emperor’s name.

I thought of the princes, Lucien and Cassian, and calculated their ages in my mind, as though this were a storyboard. Lucien, twelve—still the blade, still composed. Cassian, ten—the flame, still wild and unpredictable. My pulse ticked faster as I tried to remember the details, the exact timing of the events I had once known by heart. The plot had been intricate, and time had blurred it. Another kingdom had attempted to assassinate Kael Vetras, but I could not recall when. I couldn’t remember the streets, the rooftops, the shadows where the conspirators had crept. My memory was fragmented, a puzzle with the corner pieces missing.

I hoped I would see it. I needed to. Not because I wanted to intervene, not because I wanted to change history—though the thought teased at me—but because I needed to witness it. To watch my own story unfold, to see my inked nightmares become flesh and blood.

The empire hummed beyond the nursery walls, alive with plotting and power, and I wondered where the hero was in this reality. Was he real here, in this rewritten world? I pressed my hands together in my lap and let my mind drift over the lines I had once written. Every battle, every betrayal, every scar etched into the pages of The Crimson Court whispered to me, calling me to remember, calling me to understand.

I wanted to see. I wanted to know. And I knew I would.

I shifted slightly on the velvet cushion, feeling the edge press against my thighs. Lady Ilyra moved beside me, her hands folded neatly in front of her, gaze scanning the room as though nothing in it could surprise her. “Your Highness,” she said, voice calm, measured, “you have been sitting too long. Stand, walk with me.”

I did not answer. I merely rose, careful, deliberate, the way I had learned to move, and took her offered hand. My fingers were small, but my grip was precise, almost unnatural for a child of five. Ilyra noticed, I was sure, though she did not comment. She never did.

We walked slowly to the eastern window, the one that overlooked the eastern tower where the ivy curled like blackened veins. I stared out at the courtyard, at the empty air above, imagining the floating Bismithian isles, imagining the airships drifting over the boiling ocean, imagining Lucien’s final confrontation with that hero I had once written into life and death.

“Do you understand what you see?” Ilyra asked, not looking at me, eyes trained on the sky.

“Yes,” I said softly. My voice had grown steadier since the princes returned, though it still carried the careful cadence of someone who measured every sound.

Ilyra’s fingers twitched at her sides, as if fighting the habit of precision. “Do you… ever speak of what you imagine, Princess?”

I shook my head. “Stories are not for telling. They are for watching.”

Her glance flicked toward me then, sharp, assessing. There was curiosity there, or maybe just calculation. “You are quiet,” she said, softer this time. “Too quiet.”

“I watch,” I replied, as if that explained everything. And in a sense, it did. I had watched long enough in Black Hollow to know the weight of observation, the power of understanding before speaking. “Everything happens. Whether or not you say anything.”

Ilyra did not answer immediately. She straightened, smoothing the folds of her apron, and for a moment, I thought she might leave. Then she knelt, placing her hands on the window sill, leveling her gaze with mine. “You are very small,” she said, voice quiet, almost a whisper. “But your mind… it is older than it should be.”

I blinked once. Twice. “I remember things,” I said. “Everything from the cradle, up until now.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, a single imperceptible exhale escaping. “You must learn to speak carefully, Your Highness. Words are sharp. They cut deeper than knives.”

I nodded. Not because I feared her—I did not—but because I understood. Words were indeed sharp, and I had wielded sharper in a previous life. I could wait, I could watch, I could strike in silence.

She stood, brushing dust from her apron. “Come, it is time for your lessons,” she said. “You will not spend all day staring at the clouds.”

I followed, my tiny feet moving with deliberate care across the polished floor. Ilyra guided me toward the learning table, but I kept my gaze on the courtyard, on the invisible lines I had drawn in my mind connecting towers, banners, and the far-off seas. The Bismithian Isles floated there, my fictional world bleeding into this one, and somewhere within it, the emperor’s assassination attempt waited.

I wanted to see it. I needed to see it. And I knew—no matter what lessons Lady Ilyra gave, no matter what games or dolls or instructions I was forced to endure—I would.