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Celine's breathing had steadied some, though her hands still trembled slightly in her lap.
Levi leaned back in his chair, giving her space. He'd learned over the years that silence could be kinder than words, especially when someone was trying to put themselves back together after coming undone.
Six questions down. She'd answered every one of them honestly, which was more than he'd expected. Most people armored up after the third or fourth. But Celine kept going, kept peeling back layers even when it hurt.
He waited until she looked up at him.
"You're doing well," he said. "We've got a few more if you're up for it. But we can stop anytime."
She shook her head. "No. I want to keep going."
Her voice was quiet but firm. Levi nodded.
"Alright. Question seven."
He leaned forward just enough to close some of the distance between them without crowding her.
"When was the first time you felt truly alone?"
Celine's hands went still. Her lips parted, then pressed together. She stared down at the floor for a long moment before answering.
"When I was six."
Levi stayed quiet.
"My mother died," she said.
The words came out soft, but they carried weight. Years of weight.
Levi didn't interrupt. He'd spent enough time in therapy rooms to know that grief needed room to breathe. You couldn't rush it, couldn't fix it. You just had to sit with it.
Celine's voice picked up again, steadier now.
"She was the only one who smiled at me without wanting something back. She used to brush my hair every night before bed and tell me stories about the old gods and heroes. She didn't care about swordplay or politics. She just wanted me to be happy."
A faint smile crossed Celine's face, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"When she died, everything changed. Father changed. The whole palace changed. Everyone started treating me like a tool instead of a person. Something to sharpen and point at problems."
She looked up at Levi, and he saw the pain there, raw and unguarded.
"I remember her funeral. I was wearing these stiff mourning clothes that were too tight, and I couldn't breathe right. No one even looked at me. They just stood around whispering about succession and bloodlines and how I needed to start training harder now that she wasn't around to baby me."
Her voice cracked.
"I was six."
Levi felt a familiar ache in his chest. He'd heard versions of this story before. Different details, different names, but the core was always the same: a child forced to grow up too fast because the adults around them couldn't handle their own grief.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Celine blinked. "For what?"
"That you had to grieve in a place where no one let you."
Her shoulders dropped a little, like she'd been holding them up for years and finally had permission to rest.
They sat in silence for a moment. Outside, the city hummed faintly through the tall windows. The light filtering through the stained glass shifted as clouds drifted past.
Levi spoke again, his voice gentle.
"Did you get to say goodbye to her?"
Celine shook her head. "They wouldn't let me see her after she passed. They said it would be too hard on me. That I needed to be strong for the kingdom." She laughed bitterly.
"I was six years old and they wanted me to be strong."
"That wasn't fair," Levi said.
"No. But life isn't fair."
The words came out automatic, rehearsed. Like something she'd been told so many times she'd started believing it.
"You're right," Levi said. "Life isn't fair. But that doesn't mean what happened to you was okay."
Celine stared at him like he'd said something impossible.
Levi let the moment settle before moving on.
"One more for now. Question eight."
She nodded.
"What do you believe people expect you to be?"
The answer came fast.
"Flawless."
Levi raised an eyebrow.
"They expect me to be calm, capable, strong," she continued.
"Never cry. Never hesitate. Never fail." The words came faster, tumbling out like water through a broken dam. "My brother told me once that no one cares what a princess feels. Only what she delivers. And I've been living like that ever since."
She let out a small, tired laugh. "I don't think I've ever let anyone see me doubt myself before this."
Levi smiled slightly. "That's brave."
Celine flushed. "It doesn't feel brave. It feels like falling apart."
"Falling apart takes honesty," Levi said.
"Most people just keep pretending the cracks aren't there until everything shatters."
Celine went quiet. Something in her expression shifted. Understanding, maybe.
They sat in silence again. The clock on the wall ticked steadily. A bell chimed somewhere in the distance.
Levi watched her carefully. The rigid posture was loosening. The defensive walls coming down piece by piece. But underneath it all, he could still feel the weight pressing down on her. The story pulling her toward an ending she couldn't see yet.
In his vision, text flickered.
[Genre: Tragedy]
[Warning: High emotional fragility. Breakdown imminent without intervention.]
He kept his expression neutral. Filed the information away.
Not good. But not hopeless either.
.
.
.
The room felt quieter now, like the air itself had softened.
Celine sat curled slightly on the couch, arms folded in her lap. She looked smaller somehow. Less like a warrior princess and more like a tired nineteen-year-old who'd been carrying too much for too long.
Levi leaned back, giving her space.
"This is question nine," he said. "Take your time."
Celine nodded faintly.
"What do you fear will happen if you fail?"
She didn't answer right away. Her hands clenched in her lap, knuckles going pale.
Levi waited.
Finally, she spoke.
"I don't know."
A pause.
"No. I do know."
Her voice trembled.
"If I fail, I'll be left behind."
The words fell heavy between them.
"I'll be seen as weak. I won't be able to protect anyone. Not the people I care about. Not the kingdom. Not even myself."
Tears started falling, quiet and unstoppable.
"I'll disappoint everyone who believed in me. I'll lose my place. My family. Everything I worked for."
Her fingers twisted in the fabric of her tunic.
"Father will forget me. My brother will take everything. And I'll be nothing again."
She wiped at her face, but the tears kept coming.
"Just like when Mother died. Everyone moved on. Everyone expected me to be strong. And I tried so hard."
Her voice broke.
"But I was still alone."
Levi didn't move. He'd learned years ago not to interrupt grief when it finally surfaced. People needed to let it out, all of it, before they could begin to heal.
Celine wasn't done.
"I thought if I got stronger, if I became someone they couldn't ignore, they'd finally see me again. That Father would look at me the way he used to. That I wouldn't feel invisible anymore."
She was crying openly now, shoulders shaking.
"But it never worked. No matter how hard I trained. No matter how many titles they gave me. I still felt like I was just waiting for someone to come back and say they saw me."
Levi felt something tighten in his chest.
This wasn't about strength or failure. It was about abandonment. About a six-year-old girl left alone at a funeral while everyone around her moved on. About building walls so high that no one could hurt you, but also so high that no one could reach you.
He leaned forward slightly.
"Thank you for telling me that."
Celine wiped her face with the back of her hand, but it didn't help much.
"You've carried that by yourself for a long time," Levi said.
She nodded.
"And no one ever let you say it out loud."
"No," she whispered.
They sat in silence for a while. The kind of silence that felt less like waiting and more like resting.
Eventually, Levi spoke again.
"Last question."
Celine sniffled and nodded.
"Who are you when no one's watching?"
The question landed softer than the others.
Celine blinked. Her tears slowed.
"I don't know. I think I'm still figuring that out."
Levi stayed quiet.
She took a breath.
"When I'm alone, I don't feel strong. I don't feel like a warrior or a princess. I just feel tired."
A pause.
"I read storybooks. Old ones about heroes and gods. I like them even though they're probably childish."
Her cheeks flushed slightly.
"I sketch sometimes. Animals mostly. Birds. I like doves. They look like they could leave whenever they want."
She hesitated.
"And sometimes I pretend I'm someone else. Someone with no name or title or sword. Just someone small who doesn't have to carry anything."
Her fingers curled.
"And then I hate myself for it. Because I'm supposed to be more than that."
"You're allowed to want peace," Levi said.
She looked up at him.
"You're allowed to rest. That doesn't make you weak."
The silence that followed felt different. Calmer.
Celine's tears stopped. Her body relaxed into the couch, not from exhaustion but from something closer to acceptance.
For the first time in years, she let herself exist without performing.
Levi sat back.
"You've done enough for today. No more questions."
Celine didn't bow or nod. She just breathed.
"Thank you, Mr. Levi."
Her voice was quiet but steady.
Levi smiled faintly. He stood and reached for his coat, draping it over one shoulder as he walked to the door.
At the threshold, he paused and glanced back at her.
She sat on the couch, eyes red and raw but somehow clearer than before. Like someone who'd finally set down a weight they'd been carrying too long.
In his vision, the text remained unchanged.
[Genre: Tragedy]
[Warning: Arc requires consistent intervention. Single session insufficient for structural change.]
Levi's jaw tightened slightly.
Yeah, he thought. I figured.
One session wasn't going to fix years of trauma. He knew that. But it was a start. A crack in the foundation of her story that might, with time and care, grow into something else.
He stepped through the door and closed it quietly behind him.
For the first time since her mother died, Celine felt something she'd almost forgotten.
Not hope, exactly. Not yet.
But the possibility of it.