Solis - POV

  I was not born.

  I was summoned.

  Not into arms. Into expectation.

  Morning unfolded slowly across the palace terraces, light spilling over white marble like a blessing the world had not yet earned. The city below stirred awake in gentle increments-vendors lifting shutters, fountains beginning their quiet songs, distant bells ringing as if afraid to disturb the dawn too harshly. Everything moved with reverence here, as though the kingdom itself understood that perfection required silence.

  I stood at the balcony with my hands folded behind my back, posture straight, breath steady, gaze fixed on the horizon where gold met sky. From a distance, I must have looked calm. Composed. Effortless.

  I had practiced that illusion for centuries.

  I do not remember learning how to walk. I remember learning how to stand still. I do not remember laughter. I remember discipline. My existence did not begin with childhood; it began with purpose. While others were taught stories, I was taught expectations. While others were held, I was evaluated.

  Perfection was never a goal.

  It was the minimum requirement.

  They raised me inside halls that echoed too much. Marble remembers sound, and those corridors remembered only footsteps-mine, my instructors', my father's. No toys ever lay scattered across the floors. No cushions were out of place. Nothing soft existed unless it served ceremony.

  Children learn by falling.

  I learned by not being allowed to.

  The first time I stumbled during sword training, the instructor froze as if the world itself had tilted off its axis. He didn't shout. He didn't scold. He simply looked afraid. Not of me. Of what my father would say. We trained in silence after that.

  I once saw other children. It had been during a diplomatic procession centuries ago, when I was still new enough to existence to mistake curiosity for permission. A group of village boys chased each other near the temple gates, laughing with the reckless volume only mortals dare use. One tripped, scraped his knee, and cried instantly, loud and unashamed.

  Before I could think, I stepped toward him.

  A hand closed around my shoulder.

  Firm. Unyielding.

  "He is insignificant," my father said. "Do not lower yourself to suffering that is not yours."

  I looked again. The boy's mother had already reached him, kneeling, wiping his tears with her sleeve, kissing his forehead as if the world had nearly lost something irreplaceable.

  My father's grip tightened.

  "Compassion is a luxury of the powerless."

  I never stepped toward another crying child again.

  Blades were placed in my hands before I could lift them. Hymns carved into memory before I understood sound. Laws recited until breath became obedience. Other children learned games.

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  I learned consequences.

  Once-just once-I asked why.

  I had been small. Newly formed. Curious in the way only beings untouched by disappointment can be.

  "Because the world does not need another child," he said. "It needs a sun."

  I never asked again.

  There was a day I failed.

  I was twelve in form. Ancient in expectation. They brought a prisoner before me-a creature of shadow, wings broken, body trembling. A demon scout. Enemy.

  "Strike."

  I lifted the blade.

  The creature looked at me. Not defiant. Not furious. Afraid.

  Something tightened in my chest. My hand hesitated.

  One second.

  The blade was torn from my grip. The next instant I was on the ground, breath knocked from me-not by magic.

  By his hand.

  The palace did not gasp. It watched.

  "You hesitated."

  Not loud. Worse.

  Quiet.

  "It was afraid," I said.

  "And?"

  I didn't answer.

  "Light does not hesitate. Light burns. Light purifies. Light does not ask permission to exist."

  He stepped closer.

  "You felt pity. That is how darkness wins."

  He turned away.

  "Stand."

  I stood.

  Shaking. Bleeding. Silent.

  "Again."

  They brought another prisoner.

  This time I did not hesitate.

  The blade fell clean.

  When it was done, he nodded once.

  Approval.

  That night I stared at my hands for hours. They did not shake.

  That frightened me more than anything.

  There are many kinds of pain. Most people only know the loud ones-the sharp ones, the bleeding ones, the breaking ones. But the worst pain I have ever known was quiet.

  It was standing in a room full of people who would die for me...

  ...and realizing none of them would ever hold me.

  Centuries passed. I became what they needed: unfailing, unbreakable, unquestioning. Generals saluted me. Nations praised me. Priests wrote hymns about me before I had learned what joy felt like. Statues were carved in my image while I was still young enough not to understand why stone versions of me seemed more welcome than I was.

  Every victory earned approval. Every flaw earned silence.

  Silence was worse.

  Because silence meant:

  You disappointed us.

  The terraces stretched endlessly beneath the dawn, white stone drinking gold light as if it were scripture. Wind moved through pillars. Banners whispered. Somewhere below, soldiers trained. Somewhere farther, priests sang.

  And above all of it-

  Expectation watched.

  Footsteps sounded behind me, measured and controlled.

  "You woke before dawn again," my father said.

  Not Father.

  Never that.

  My king. My creator. My judge.

  "I did not sleep," I answered.

  A pause.

  Not surprise.

  Evaluation.

  "You should rest," he said. "A weapon that dulls is a liability."

  Not concern.

  Instruction.

  I inclined my head. "Yes, my lord."

  Silence again.

  He stepped beside me then, robes whispering like law being written. His presence bent the air itself-light bending to brighter light.

  "You understand," he said, eyes fixed on the horizon, "why you were made."

  Not born.

  Made.

  "Yes."

  "And what are you?"

  I didn't hesitate.

  "Perfection."

  His gaze shifted to me.

  Not warm.

  Not proud.

  Assessing.

  "And what happens," he asked softly, "if perfection fails?"

  The answer lived in my bones long before I learned language.

  "It is replaced."

  A faint smile touched his mouth.

  Approval.

  The rarest currency in existence.

  "Good," he said.

  That single word weighed more than armor.

  He studied me one final time, searching, measuring, ensuring. Whatever he saw satisfied him, because he turned and departed without another word. His robes whispered against the stone as he left, and the terrace seemed colder for their absence.

  I remained where I was.

  Not because I had been ordered to.

  Because I did not know where else to stand.

  The garden air was warmer than the throne room, though it did not feel warmer inside my chest. White petals drifted from celestial trees, settling across the marble like quiet snow. One landed on my gauntlet and stayed there.

  Strange how something so fragile could exist in a world that demanded perfection.

  I had faced armies without flinching. I had faced judgment without breathing wrong. Yet silence from him still lingered in my bones like a command that had never truly ended.

  Necessary.

  That word had shaped me more than any blessing ever had. I did not resent it. I had been raised to understand purpose before comfort, duty before desire, strength before self.

  Still...

  sometimes I wondered what it might feel like to be wanted for something other than usefulness.

  A faint shimmer interrupted the thought.

  Light.

  A small sigil flickered before me, gold edged with soft flame.

  Her.

  The message unfolded lazily.

  Solis

  I saw that flower crown the children put on you earlier.

  You looked very serious about it.

  I hope you didn't keep it on all day.

  - P

  My shoulders eased before I realized they had been tense.

  She noticed.

  Not my victories.

  Not my duties.

  Me.

  Warmth settled in my chest, gentle and unfamiliar, like sunlight slipping through a window I hadn't realized was open. Not triumph. Not pride.

  Something softer.

  Something safe.

  "I took it off," I murmured. "...after an hour."

  The corner of my mouth lifted faintly. Not a smile meant for court. Not one meant for victory.

  Just one meant for her.

  I closed my fingers and the message dissolved into warmth, sinking into my skin like it belonged there. I let it stay.

  Because admiration can be commanded.

  But this-

  This was chosen.

  I straightened, posture returning, shoulders steady again. Duty still waited. Responsibility still remained. Nothing about the world had changed.

  Except now it felt lighter to carry.

  "I won't disappoint you," I said softly.

  Not as an oath.

  As truth.

  The petals kept falling.

  And for once-

  I let one stay where it landed.