EPISODE 1

The halls of Morven’s palace were vast, echoing, and suffused with shadows that seemed almost alive. No candle burned without careful placement; no tapestry hung without order. And yet, for all the opulence and control, there was a cold emptiness that could not be masked. That emptiness resided not in the walls, but in the man who ruled them: King Morven. His presence was commanding, his aura suffocating, and his heart—a fortress no warmth could breach.

Princess Rubella moved silently through the corridors, her skirts brushing the polished stone floor. She was aware, as she always had been, that her father’s eyes rarely found her. Not because she was invisible—far from it—but because his gaze held no place for her. She had been born from a marriage that ended in tragedy, a union that left her mother dead and her father hardened. And now, she existed as a silent witness, a shadow moving through a kingdom ruled with cruelty disguised as order.

Rubella paused near the balcony that overlooked the northern courtyard. The evening sun casts long, thin beams of light that are tried in vain to penetrate the cold gloom of the castle. Even in this fleeting warmth, she felt the absence of her father’s attention. Morven had remarried after her mother’s death, yet his eyes never shifted toward her with anything resembling affection. He did not scold her, nor did he praise her—she simply existed, tolerated for the sake of bloodline, dismissed for the sake of his hardened heart.

And yet, despite the indifference, Rubella had learned to survive in the shadow of his gaze. She carried herself with a grace that was not entirely natural, honed from years of studying every small expression, every subtle shift in tone. She knew when to speak, when to remain silent, when to offer a smile that could soften the sharp edges of a courtier’s observation. But none of these lessons could teach her how to coax warmth from the man who had birthed her and then turned away.

King Morven stood in the high chamber, overlooking the council assembled below. His robes were dark, nearly black, embroidered with threads of silver that caught the torchlight. Every line of his face was carved with severity; every movement calculated. To his advisors, he was a visionary, a ruler who commanded loyalty through respect—and fear. To Rubella, he was simply a father who had forgotten how to care.

He did not hear her steps along the balcony above. His mind was consumed with matters of state—taxes, alliances, and whispers of rebellion. But even as he measured every decision with ruthless precision, there remained a space in him that could not be occupied by affection, not even for the child who bore the last trace of a woman he had once loved. He had loved her mother once, passionately and recklessly, and the memory lingered like a shadow he refused to confront. Rubella was a reminder, and he would not allow reminders to weaken his resolve.

The princess leaned against the cold stone railing, fingers brushing the carved patterns, tracing them absently. Her heart beat steadily, quietly, in a rhythm she had cultivated over years of knowing she would never be enough. Yet within her chest burned a fire that no indifference could quench—a quiet rebellion, not against the throne or the crown, but against the emptiness of her father’s gaze. She would not vanish; she would not be ignored.

She remembered the day her mother had died, though she was too young to grasp the finality of it then. Morven had stood beside her, expression stoic, offering only the barest acknowledgment of loss. “We do not linger on what is gone,” he had said, his voice low and commanding. “We honor it through strength, not grief.” And that was the lesson he had passed on, harsh and unyielding: grief was weakness, emotion a liability, affection a distraction. Rubella had learned to mask her sorrow, to smile when necessary, to speak only when it served her survival.

Even now, in the quiet of the balcony, she felt the weight of his lessons. She knew she would never earn his praise; she would never be the daughter he cherished. And yet, she would not surrender to despair. That was her defiance: to exist fully, to shine in a world where the one person meant to illuminate her life chose darkness instead.

Below, the council murmured among themselves. Morven’s gaze swept over them with the precision of a hawk, assessing, calculating, striking fear in even the most seasoned ministers. He did not glance upward, did not acknowledge the presence of his daughter. To him, she was another part of the palace, another piece in the machinery of succession, nothing more. Yet, the very act of ignoring her made her all the more alive in her own mind. She was a presence that could not be erased, no matter how cold the king’s heart.

That night, when the torches burned low and the corridors whispered with the echo of footsteps long past, Rubella retreated to her chamber. The room was lavish, filled with silks and books, with paintings that depicted heroes and legends. Yet the beauty of the space could not fill the void left by a father’s absence. She sat by the window, staring at the moonlight spilling across the gardens, and allowed herself a moment of honesty. She was lonely, yes—but she was not powerless. The world beyond the palace was vast, and though her father’s gaze did not reach her, hers could reach far beyond the walls of stone.

A soft knock at the door broke her reverie. It was her maid, a young girl who had served the princess since childhood. “Your Highness,” she said quietly, “the king will retire soon. He does not wish to be disturbed.”

Rubella nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line. She did not need the reminder. Her father’s presence was a shadow that lingered in every corner of her life, whether he was near or far. She could feel his eyes in the court, even when he looked elsewhere; she could sense his judgment in every whisper, every murmur of the palace staff. And yet, for all his power, for all his indifference, she carried within her something he could never take: self-possession, courage, and a mind that would not bow.

As the night deepened, she allowed herself a secret hope. Perhaps one day, the light she nurtured within herself would find its way into the cold corridors of her father’s heart. Perhaps the man who ruled with fear and precision could be shaken, if only slightly, by the presence of a daughter who refused to vanish. Until then, she would endure, she would learn, she would survive. And when the time came, she would step out from the shadows, not as the neglected daughter of a king, but as a force he could no longer ignore.

For now, however, the palace slept in uneasy silence. The king’s chambers were dark, save for the flickering torchlight, and the princess’s room was quiet, filled with books and the soft rustle of silk. Outside, the wind whispered through the stone battlements, carrying with it the promise of change, the faint stirrings of destiny. Rubella closed her eyes, feeling the weight of the crown she had not yet worn, and imagined a future in which she would not be overlooked.

And somewhere deep within the walls, King Morven continued to rule, unaware that the daughter he dismissed was already preparing to challenge the very world he controlled. The night was long, the shadows deep, but a quiet defiance had taken root—and it would not be extinguished so easily.

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