His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. His uniform hung loose on his frame—he had lost weight, the weight of an empire and a dying child pressing down on shoulders never meant to carry so much.

The girl on the bed did not stir. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, rattling breaths, her skin pale as the snow beyond the window. A maid hovered in the corner, wringing her hands, her eyes red from sleepless nights.

Phillip did not look up. His gaze remained fixed on his daughter’s face, as if he could will her to wake with the sheer force of his love.

The door creaked open, and a draft of cold air swept through the room. A tall figure stepped inside, his beard wild and unkempt, his eyes dark and unreadable. He wore simple peasant clothes, a stark contrast to the gilded opulence around him.