They mocked me and taunted me, and he let it happen.
His eyes met mine once, and in them was a thousand words he would not say: 'Oh, my daughter.' Then something colder: I am a king here, not your father.
I saw the pain in his eyes. It was true; eyes can say a thousand words.
It cut me open. He carried the weight of the crown, and it bent him strange — not because he didn't love me, but because the crown asked different things than a father does.
He held back, and I could see the toll; his jaw was tight, and his hands were steady only outside, not inside. He was too bound by rules, by duty, by what the court expected of a king.
This world was run by men, not by women.
They spoke loud, they laughed loud, and the law bent where their strength pointed.
Even a king could not break that pattern without breaking everything else he was sworn to hold.
That made me angrier than anything else.
Not because he failed me as a father, but because he couldn't — or wouldn't — be my shield in front of those foolish men.
If he would not silence them for me, I would silence them by plucking their tongues out.
I would be the one to stop their laughter.
I lifted my chin. My eyes burnt as I stared at each of them.
"You laugh because you fear the idea of a woman holding a blade beside you."
Their laughter faltered. I stepped closer, my voice cutting sharp.
"We bleed the same. We die the same. Do you think courage is born in your loins, that only men may claim it? Tell me then, why can a woman not stand in battle beside you?"
When I asked the question, the council went silent. I could see their faces turn red with anger. Some clenched their jaws. Some clenched their knuckles and slammed on the desk.
Then one man stood from the council, his chair scraping loudly on the stone. His lips curled, and his nose wrinkled like he smelt something rotten.
"A woman on the battlefield?" he scoffed.
"The moment blood splashes your hands, you'd faint. War is not sewing or dancing, Princess. It's sweat, mud, steel, and death. What use is soft skin and painted lips in the clash of swords? You'd be nothing but dead weight dragging men down."
Another man beside him shot up, puffing out his chest like a proud rooster, chin high, eyes burning as if he spoke holy truth.
"She dares to talk of bleeding?" he laughed.
"The only blood a woman knows is her monthly curse. Do you think that makes you fit to march beside men? To fight? To kill? Don't fool yourself — your place is in the chambers, not on the battlefield."
A third leaned forward over the table, his teeth flashing, eyes squinting as if he had already won an argument no one gave him.
"Let her stay in her chambers, then—waiting by her husband's bed. A princess playing soldier? The gods must be having a good laugh."
Oh gosh, fuck these men. They weren't even the ones who would fight the monsters.
They were the council of war — old men, soft hands, fat bellies — only good at giving orders to soldiers who would bleed for them.
And yet here they were, speaking of blood, of swords, of sacrifice, of power. All those grand words spilling from the mouths of fools who didn't even know how to lift a blade without shaking.
Their voices cut into me, each word sharp and bitter. But at the same time… it amused me.
Yes, it really amused my heart.
I almost wanted to laugh, to throw my head back and let the sound ring across the hall.
To laugh right in their faces, at their stupidity, at the pathetic courage of men who hid behind tables and chairs.
It was ridiculous. Truly ridiculous.
I turned to my father. His hands gripped the table edge, veins standing in his skin. His eyes met mine, burning — but he said nothing.
Not one word.
He did not laugh with them. He did not defend me either. His silence cut deeper than their mockery.
But I could not blame my father. I knew him. If he wished, he could silence them all in a single breath. He could burn their skin with his magic, he could cut their throats where they stood, and no one would dare speak again.
He did not. He held back on purpose.
In his eyes, I was still a foolish girl. A daughter, not a warrior. He thought if I stood here and took their laughter, if I felt their scorn deep enough, I would break on my own and drop this madness of joining the war. He thought humiliation would keep me safe.
That was why he stayed quiet. Not because he was weak. Because he chose silence as a shield.
But what my father didn't know was that I knew him too well.
He only knew me in one life.
But to me… it was many.
I had died and been born again and again. I had watched him in every life.
I had seen him as a king, as a tired king, as a king full of fire and as a king broken by war.
I had seen his rage, his mercy, his tears, and his silence.
To him, I was just his daughter in this one life.
To me, he was a thousand fathers in a thousand deaths.
I knew every shadow in his eyes. I knew what he would choose before he even moved.
I stood straight. My voice rang across the hall.
"Remember this moment. You laughed when your princess asked to fight for her kingdom. You mocked her for daring to bleed beside you."
I turned, my silver hair sweeping behind me, my eyes cold as ice.
"One day, when I stand on the battlefield and you cower behind walls, you will remember this laughter. And you will choke on it."
I left the hall without looking back. Their whispers followed me, but I did not care.
But still my father's silence burnt in my chest.
But so did my resolve.
If they would not let me fight as a soldier, then I would fight as something else. Something greater.
Not just a princess.
But the Princess of Thorns.
And one day I will become the Empress of Thorns.
When this whole world is coiled in my hand, then I will be truly called the Empress of Thorns.