My father came alone.
No guards.
No attendants.
No announcements.
That alone was unusual.
I was sitting near the garden's stone path, watching the leaves move in the wind. I wasn't playing. I wasn't training either.
Just sitting.
Thinking.
I noticed him before he spoke—not by sound, but by the way the air felt heavier.
"Why do you sit here so often?"
His voice was calm. Not sharp. Not cold.
I looked up.
My father stood a few steps away, hands behind his back, his expression unreadable.
I didn't answer.
Not because I didn't want to.
Because I didn't know how.
He didn't press.
Instead, he moved closer and sat down beside me—awkwardly, like someone unfamiliar with the act.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
The wind carried the scent of grass and stone.
"You weren't always like this," he said eventually. "Your mother tells me you smiled more before."
I looked at my hands.
Small.
Too small for the weight they carried.
"I am not asking you to speak," he continued. "Only to listen."
I did.
"When I was a child," my father said quietly, "I learned early that the world watches those born into power. Every mistake is remembered. Every weakness exaggerated."
He paused.
"Silence can be protection."
His eyes shifted to me.
"But it can also become a wall."
Something tightened in my chest.
Not fear.
Recognition.
I focused on my breathing without realizing it—slow, measured, the way I had been practicing at night.
In.
Out.
The familiar pull answered.
My father stopped speaking.
Not abruptly.
Carefully.
His gaze sharpened—not toward my face, but toward the space around me.
The air felt… denser.
Only for a heartbeat.
Then it faded.
My father didn't react.
Not outwardly.
But I saw it.
The moment his certainty wavered.
"…I see," he said softly.
Not what he saw.
Just that he did.
He stood.
"You are not weak," he said. "And you are not broken."
His hand rested briefly on my head.
"Whatever you are carrying—you do not have to do it alone."
Then he turned away.
That evening, things changed.
Not loudly.
Not visibly.
But with intent.
My schedule adjusted.
My isolation softened.
And a man named Rowan appeared the next morning.
Later that night, alone in my room, I lay awake.
My father hadn't asked me to explain.
Hadn't demanded answers.
He had simply noticed.
And for the first time since coming to this world—
I felt seen.