The capital city of Valiant buzzed with an unprecedented fervor, a strange mix of sorrow and barely contained excitement. High above the throng, on a grand palace balcony, Princess Aurora stood, a tiny figure swallowed by layers of heavy silk and elaborate makeup. Her advisors had insisted on the tall heels, the wide gown, the broadened shoulders—anything to make her appear older, to convince the milling crowd below that she was not a mere child.

Beside her, Devrim, barely two years her senior, fidgeted in his own cumbersome disguise. They were two children playing dress-up on the precipice of an empire.

Chief Cafer, head of the Council, raised his arms, and a hush fell. "Empress Zephyra... is dead!" he boomed, and the crowd erupted in a cacophony of murmurs, then a unified, thundering cry: "Glory to the Empress!"

Aurora gasped, the sound lost in the cheers. Devrim’s hand found hers, a grounding touch in the chaos. He leaned in, whispering, "Are you okay?"

A small smile touched her lips. "I will be fine. Are you sure you want to do this? If you make your escape now, I will not stop you."

He grinned, a hint of boyish mischief in his eyes. "I am here to serve you, Empress."

"Please don't call me that...at least not for another week." They turned back to Cafer, whose voice swelled with cunning proclamations of Aurora’s fabricated marriage and heirs, turning the crowd’s indignation into rapturous cheers for a week of public holiday. Aurora inwardly applauded his mastery. She was not her mother, and already, they loved her for it.

"Don't be anyone but you. Forge your own path. It's not every day you inherit a planet," Devrim whispered, his smile plastered on as Cafer hissed for them to wave more vigorously.

Aurora chuckled, the weight of his words heavy on her small shoulders. "Inheriting it was easy. Ruling it will be the hard part."