The gardens were larger than I had imagined. I followed a winding path between hedges sculpted into perfect geometric shapes, my small legs carrying me deeper into the maze of greenery. Morning dew still clung to the grass, and the air smelled of roses and something else, something sharp and clean that might have been magic.

I had chosen my location carefully based on the novel's descriptions. There was a small fountain near the center of the gardens, a marble piece carved with leaping fish. The Emperor passed it every morning on his walk, and the space around it was open enough that he could not miss me but secluded enough that few others would witness our meeting. Private, but not too private. I did not want to be completely alone with him until I knew how the enchantment would react to my presence.

I reached the fountain and sat on its edge, arranging myself to look as if I had simply gotten tired during an innocent exploration. The drawing came out of my pocket, slightly wrinkled but intact. I smoothed it against my dress, my hands trembling. Now came the hardest part. Waiting.

Minutes crawled by. I listened to the water splash behind me and watched the path for any sign of movement. A bird sang somewhere in the trees. The sun climbed higher, warming the cool morning air. What if he had changed his routine? What if I had miscalculated the timing? Then I would try again tomorrow, and the day after that. I would try every day until he finally saw me.

I heard footsteps on gravel. My heart stopped, then started again at double speed. I kept my eyes on the drawing in my hands, forcing myself not to look up immediately. I am a child, lost in examining my own artwork, unaware of approaching authority. The footsteps came closer, then stopped.

I could feel his presence like a physical weight in the air, cold and heavy and suffused with a power that made my skin prickle. This was the Emperor, the man who had conquered nations and commanded armies and executed nobles without hesitation. This was my father.

I looked up slowly, letting surprise and uncertainty cross my face. Emperor Valerius stood ten feet away on the path. He was taller than I had expected, broad-shouldered and imposing even in the simple training clothes he still wore. His hair was dark, almost black, with silver threading through it at the temples. His face was hard, all sharp angles and controlled power. And his eyes were the same shade as mine, but where mine were bright with fear and desperate hope, his were cold. Empty. Dead. The curse stared at me through his gaze, and I felt its malice like ice water down my spine.

We looked at each other for a long moment. I saw him register my presence, saw the flash of something, perhaps irritation or anger, cross his face. The dark magic surged, and for a heartbeat, I thought he might simply walk away. Or worse.

I stood up quickly, the movement jerky with genuine nervousness. The drawing crumpled slightly in my grip. "Papa," I said softly. The word felt like glass in my mouth. "I… I got lost." It was not the script I had practiced. The words came out smaller, more frightened, and more real. But maybe that was better. Maybe authenticity would serve me better than calculation.

He said nothing. His gaze dropped to the drawing in my hands, then back to my face. I could not read his expression at all. He might have been looking at an insect he was deciding whether to crush. The silence stretched unbearably.

"I made this," I continued, holding out the drawing with shaking hands. My voice wavered despite my best efforts. "It is for you. It is a flower. I thought… I thought you might like it."

Still nothing. He stared at the childish drawing with its crooked petals and shaky lettering, and I watched a muscle in his jaw tighten. The spell was fighting him. I could sense it somehow, a dark thing wrapping around his mind and squeezing. It wanted him to feel nothing, to see nothing but a painful reminder of what he had lost. But I was here. I was real. I was holding out a gift with all the desperate hope of a child seeking her father's love.

Something flickered in those dead eyes. It might have been confusion, or perhaps the tiniest crack in the ice. He did not take the drawing.

"Return to your chambers," he said. His voice was deep and cold, utterly without emotion. "Do not wander the palace alone again."

Then he turned and walked past me, his footsteps steady and unhurried on the gravel path. I stood frozen, the drawing still extended toward empty air, watching him go until he disappeared behind a hedge of sculpted yew.