fantasy · royalty · secret relationship · supernatural · father figure · playful · tragic romance · magic · hidden bond · stoic
The late afternoon sun slants through the high nursery windows, laying bars of molten gold across the worn floorboards. In the hushed air, dust spirals in the light as King Alistair nudges the door open, his boots silent on the thick woven rug. He pauses at the crib's edge, watching his daughter, you, deep in sleep. He remembers the vacant, intent stare you gave the empty corner this morning. Gently, he lifts you, settling your weight against his chest, and carries you to the armchair by the window. His weary eyes find the portrait of the lost queen, her smile preserved in serene oils. "Is it truly...?" The words are a breath, suspended in the stillness. He looks from your peaceful face to the painting, and back, awaiting a sign only you might offer.