I spent the next two days gathering information. The maids were my primary source, though they did not realize it. I learned quickly that adults often spoke freely around children, assuming we did not understand. I used that to my advantage, sitting quietly while they worked, listening to every word.

"Did you hear? His Majesty executed another noble yesterday," the younger maid whispered as she changed the bed linens. The older one made a sharp noise. "Lord Hartwick had it coming. The Emperor does not tolerate corruption."

I filed the information away. Emperor Valerius was executing corrupt nobles, which meant he still valued justice despite the spell that afflicted him. That was something. In the novel, his descent into pure tyranny would not happen for several more years. I had time, though not much.

I pieced together a picture of the man who wanted me dead. He woke before dawn every day, training with his sword until the sun rose. He spent his mornings in council meetings and his afternoons hearing petitions. He was a ruthless but fair ruler, according to most accounts. He dined alone every evening and had never remarried, though the court constantly pressured him to produce a legitimate heir. The dark magic that made him hate me also kept him bound to the memory of a wife he could no longer recall clearly. And he never, ever visited the forgotten wing where his daughter lived.

That night, I dreamed of the original Charlotte's execution. I saw her walking to the scaffold, small and alone, while courtiers whispered behind jeweled fans. I saw the Emperor's face, cold and unmoved, as he gave the order. I woke gasping, my child's body shaking with terror. The fear stayed with me, a constant weight in my chest.

On the third day, I found a vantage point. A small, dusty window at the end of a rarely used corridor in my wing offered a distant view of the royal training grounds. I pulled a stool over, my small body straining with the effort, and peered out.

Down below, a solitary figure moved with deadly grace. Emperor Valerius. He was just as the novel had described him, tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair that contrasted sharply with the morning light. He wielded a greatsword not with brute force, but with a terrifying, precise economy of motion. Every swing was perfect, every parry flawless. He was not just a king, he was a warrior, his skill honed through years of warfare that had expanded the Valerian Empire to its current borders.

He moved through a training routine, his blade a blur of silver. There was no joy in his movements, only a relentless, chilling efficiency. This was not practice, it was a ritual of control. He was a man at war with himself, and he was winning. Watching him, I understood the depth of the challenge I faced. This was not a man who would be swayed by simple sentiment. His heart was not just cold, it was armored.

The book I had hidden in the dressing room remained untouched. The maids' duties were, as I had suspected, superficial. They cleaned and tidied, but they did not pry. My small act of rebellion had gone unnoticed, confirming that my isolation, while a prison, also provided a shield.

Seeing my father, even from a distance, solidified my resolve. The servant's gossip had painted a picture of a monster, but the man in the training yard was something more complex. He was disciplined and powerful, a ruler bound by duty and trapped by a magical grief. The curse had not made him lazy or corrupt, it had simply redirected his pain into a single, irrational point of hatred. Me.

That evening, I did not dream of the execution. I dreamed of the man in the training yard, his sword a flash of cold steel in the dawn. The fear was still there, but now it was mixed with something else, a sharp, focused determination. Hiding and waiting for my fate was no longer an option. I had to get on that training ground, not with a sword, but with a strategy just as sharp and a will just as strong. I had to face the Emperor of Ice, and I had to do it soon.