The afternoon sun cast the gardens in gold, the air thick with the scent of blossoms and freshly cut grass. A picnic had been arranged on the lawn—linen spread carefully, fruit and pastries set in neat bowls, pitchers of chilled water beading with condensation.

Cassian sprawled on the blanket first, already reaching for the sugared cakes. He laughed as crumbs scattered across his tunic, shouting at the birds that hopped too close. His energy was constant, wild, and though he was ten, he moved as though every day might collapse if he didn’t fill it with noise.

Selene sat across from him, small hands folded neatly in her lap. Five years old, pale hair tied back with ribbons, violet eyes steady. She watched Cassian with the kind of patience most adults couldn’t manage, listening to his stories of sword drills and mock battles with the tutors. When she did speak, it was measured. Short, thoughtful.

It was strange, Snow thought, to see her like this. Outwardly a child—soft, delicate, laughing when Cassian pressed too hard for her attention. Yet beneath it all, there was something older in her. Too sharp, too deliberate. She did not fidget. She did not chatter. She held herself like someone who had lived long enough to know when silence was more useful than words.

Snow stood nearby, as ordered. A shadow at her side, tasting each dish before it touched her lips, scanning the servants’ movements with the automatic precision drilled into him. He was not supposed to think, only to protect. And yet he found himself watching her.

Cassian tried to press a piece of bread into her hands. “Eat more, Selene. You’re too thin.”

Selene accepted it but only nibbled, her expression amused in a way that looked far too practiced. “If I eat as much as you, Cassian, the cooks will run out of flour.”

He laughed, rolling onto his back, arms sprawled like a boy who had never been taught fear.

Snow caught himself smiling faintly. He had not expected that.

Selene turned her gaze on him suddenly, eyes bright, clear. “Snow,” she said softly. “Are you bored?”

The name still startled him. Not because it was cruel—though the Emperor had called it so—but because it was new. A name that belonged to her lips alone, untainted by Kael’s voice.

“No, Your Highness,” he answered. His voice was low, steady. “I do not bore.”

She studied him for a moment longer, then nodded as though satisfied, turning her attention back to Cassian’s laughter.

Snow looked at her then—not as a slave bound by collar and command, not as a knight stripped of title and home. He saw a child who should not have been so composed, who should not have eyes that heavy at five years old. And yet, she carried it all with quiet dignity.

He thought of the Emperor’s words, the cruelty of this palace, the way the court devoured its own. And he thought: She will survive it. She will do more than survive. She will shape it.

For the first time in years, Snow felt something stir in his chest. Not loyalty forced by command, not obedience demanded by chains. Something gentler. Protective.

He shifted his stance, hand brushing the hilt of his sword, and let the thought settle deep within him.

This child will do great things.

And when she did, he would be there.