The first rays of dawn filtered through the tall, arched windows of the royal nursery, casting a soft, golden glow on the room's ornate furnishings. The nursery was a place of warmth and comfort, filled with plush toys, delicate lace curtains, and the faint scent of lavender. It was here that Princess Iris Elitharia Valtoria took her first breath, cradled in the loving arms of her mother, Empress Brianna Elara Valtoria, and under the watchful eye of her father, Emperor Lucian Aurelius Valtoria.
Empress Brianna was a vision of grace and beauty. Her long, golden hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall of sunlight, and her emerald eyes sparkled with a warmth that could melt the coldest of hearts. Her voice, soft and melodic, sang lullabies that filled the palace with a sense of peace and serenity. Emperor Lucian, with his tall, imposing figure and striking features, was the epitome of strength and leadership. Though he was a man of few words, his kindness and the gentle smiles he reserved for his family spoke volumes about his character.
Iris's earliest memories were filled with the sound of her mother's lullabies. She could still recall the gentle melody that would soothe her to sleep, the soft hum of her mother's voice wrapping around her like a warm embrace. Those were days of pure joy and love, where the palace was a sanctuary of happiness. She remembered the way her mother would hold her close, the feel of her soft hair brushing against her cheek as she sang her to sleep.
One particular memory stood out among the rest—a visit to a serene, hidden garden within the palace grounds. Iris was only a few years old at the time, and the garden, with its vibrant flowers and tranquil pond, seemed like a magical realm. Her parents had taken her there one sunny afternoon, and she could still recall the laughter that echoed through the garden as they played together. Yet, despite her remarkable memory, she couldn't recall the exact location of that garden or the path they took to get there. It was as if the memory was shrouded in a gentle fog, leaving her with only fleeting glimpses of her mother's smile and the warmth of that day.
Emperor Lucian had always been a reserved man, but in those early years, he was a pillar of strength and affection for his family. He would lift Iris onto his shoulders, letting her see the world from his lofty height, and his deep, rumbling laughter would resonate through the halls as they played. He was a man of few words, but his actions spoke of a deep and abiding love for his wife and daughter.
However, the harmony of their lives was shattered when Empress Brianna fell gravely ill. The palace, once filled with laughter and music, was now cloaked in a heavy silence. Iris, barely five years old, could sense the change, though she didn't fully understand it. She watched as her mother's vibrant energy faded, replaced by a pallor that seemed to drain the life from her. The once warm and lively Empress became bedridden, her voice growing weaker with each passing day.
The day her mother passed away was one that Iris would never forget. She was ushered into her mother's room by her nanny, the air heavy with an unspoken sadness. Empress Brianna lay on her bed, her breathing shallow and labored. Emperor Lucian sat by her side, his usually stoic expression softened by grief. As Iris approached, her mother reached out a trembling hand and cupped her cheek.
"My sweet Iris," Brianna whispered, her voice barely audible. "Always remember that you are loved. Be strong, my darling."
Tears streamed down Iris's cheeks as she clung to her mother's hand, the warmth slowly ebbing away. She looked up at her father, hoping for some reassurance, but his face was a mask of sorrow. He didn't speak, didn't move—he was a statue of mourning.
With her mother's passing, a profound change came over Emperor Lucian. The warmth and gentle smiles that once defined him vanished, replaced by a cold, unyielding demeanor. He became known as the "Bloody Emperor," a ruler whose decisions were ruthless and calculated, aimed solely at strengthening the empire. His once-kind eyes now bore a steely resolve, and his interactions with Iris became distant and formal.
For Iris, the transformation of her father was a source of deep pain and confusion. She longed for the days when he would lift her onto his shoulders, the days when his laughter filled the halls. But those days seemed like a distant dream. She would often find herself wandering the palace alone, her heart heavy with the loss of both her parents—her mother to illness and her father to a grief that had turned him into a stranger.
At eight years old, Iris was a picture of grace and intelligence, much like her mother. Her auburn hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, and her eyes, a striking shade of blue, held a wisdom beyond her years. She excelled in her studies, her tutors often marveling at her intellect and keen memory. But despite her accomplishments, she felt a void that no amount of knowledge could fill.
One evening, as she sat by the window of her chamber, gazing out at the moonlit gardens, she made a decision. She could no longer endure the cold distance between herself and her father. She had lost her mother, but she refused to lose her father as well. Gathering her courage, she decided to try to bridge the chasm that had grown between them.
The opportunity came during a grand banquet held in honor of a visiting dignitary. The palace was abuzz with preparations, and Iris knew she would have to sit beside her father at the head table. The thought filled her with both dread and determination. She had to find a way to reach him, to remind him of the bond they once shared.
As the banquet began, the grand hall was filled with the sound of lively conversation and clinking glasses. The table was adorned with elaborate floral arrangements and silver candelabras, casting a warm, flickering light on the faces of the guests. Iris, dressed in a delicate gown of pale blue silk, took her place beside her father. Emperor Lucian, resplendent in his regal attire, sat with a stern expression, acknowledging the guests with a nod but saying little.
Throughout the evening, Iris stole glances at her father, searching for any sign of the man he used to be. She noticed the way his eyes would momentarily soften when he looked at her, but the hardness would quickly return. She knew she had to take a risk, to reach out to him despite her fear.
As the dessert course was being served, Iris took a deep breath and turned to her father. "Father," she said softly, her voice trembling slightly. "May I ask you something?"
Emperor Lucian looked at her, his expression unreadable. "What is it, Iris?"
She hesitated, her heart pounding in her chest. "Do you remember the garden we used to visit? The one with the pond and the flowers? I... I can't seem to remember how to get there."
For a moment, there was silence. Then, something flickered in her father's eyes—an emotion she hadn't seen in years. He looked down at his hands, then back at her, his expression softening. "Yes, Iris," he said quietly. "I remember."
Then he look at her. "But that memory is unneeded,"
Iris felt a lump form in her throat at her father's words. The way he dismissed the memory so easily was like a knife to her heart. She had hoped for a different response, a sign that her father still held onto the warmth and love that once defined their relationship. But instead, she was met with cold indifference.
"Why, Father?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "Why is it unneeded?"
Emperor Lucian's gaze hardened again, and he sighed, as if the conversation was an inconvenience. "The past is the past, Iris. We cannot live in it. We must focus on the present and the future of the empire."
Iris bit her lip, fighting back tears. She knew he was right, in a sense, but the pain of losing her mother and the distance growing between her and her father was too much to bear. She longed for the days when they were a family, filled with love and laughter.
"But, Father," she persisted, her voice trembling, "remembering the past doesn't mean we can't move forward. It reminds us of who we are, of the love that still exists. Mother wouldn't want us to forget."
The room seemed to hold its breath as she spoke, the guests nearby subtly leaning in to hear the exchange between the emperor and his daughter. Emperor Lucian's face remained stern, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—regret, perhaps, or a memory of the man he used to be.
"Iris," he said finally, his voice softer, almost gentle. "You are young. You don't understand anything yet. You don't need to know anything yet," his tone changed to one full of pain, before returning to the face of the mighty emperor.
Iris felt a wave of frustration and sadness at her father's words. She wanted to bridge the gap between them, to bring back the warmth they once shared, but it seemed like an impossible task. She swallowed her emotions, forcing herself to maintain composure in front of the guests. "I understand, Father,"