Hundreds of flowers decorated the streets, and a joyous atmosphere lit the city. The air was thick with the scent of blooming roses and sweet pastries from market stalls, while the rhythm of drums and lutes echoed off the cobblestones. People danced to the music played by artists who had gathered with their instruments for this day.
It was a day of celebration for the Empire of Luvitania.
A day to welcome home their monarch and hero, a man once again victorious.
Aemilius Leontis Dilwyn Leivaditis Armonye Klenhauszen.
The man who brought prosperity to the land, who had built the great empire of Luvitania.
As he paraded with his troops, returning from his latest victory, he was greeted by thunderous excitement. The air filled with cheers, and flowers of every colour rained down, some thrown from the crowd, others fluttering from the windows above. Pride radiated from the people as they gazed at their emperor.
His pink hair, streaked with gold, gleamed in the sun. He looked even more imposing astride his majestic white steed. His perfectly tailored white ensemble accentuated his beauty and elegance, while his red cloak, embroidered with gold, flowed with the rhythm of his horse's stride.
A row of knights stood in perfect formation, their swords raised high. As he passed between them, they lowered their blades in tribute, honouring the end of the war and paying respect to those who had fought and fallen.
In the crowd, some children were lifted onto their parents' shoulders, while others squeezed between adults' legs to reach the front. Among them, a little boy held a single rose. He had pushed his way forward, his mother's voice echoing in his mind: Throw it toward him. But he wanted to give it to the emperor directly, with his own hands.
So here he was, eyes squeezed shut, straining forward.
But then, the flower slipped from his grasp.
Panicked, he opened his eyes, only to see the emperor bending down in front of him, gently holding the rose. Aemilius's gray eyes, flecked with gold, met his. For the briefest moment, it felt like the whole world stilled. Then the emperor straightened, gave the boy a faint, warm smile, and rode on.
The boy clasped his hands together in awe as the emperor disappeared behind the long line of knights some on horseback, others marching on foot. One day, he thought, I will be one of them.
The procession finally reached the palace. Knights stood in two lines, swords raised in salute. Behind them, the palace staff bowed low. The men placed their right hands over their hearts, left hands clasped behind their backs. The women held their hands together in front of them.
At the end of the line, the Knight Captain stood at attention, his sword raised. Beside him were the head butler and head maid, their posture equally formal.
As Aemilius walked past, the knights raised their swords skyward, forming a canopy of steel above him. When he reached the head butler, he removed his cloak and tossed it into his arms, not slowing his pace.
Before anyone could speak, he was already striding into the palace, the rose still in his hand. His boots rang sharply against the marble floor. He moved with determined steps, as though afraid the moment he sought might vanish if he delayed.
Finally, he reached a door.
He placed a hand on the knob, turned it slowly, and opened it. Sunlight streamed in from tall windows, bathing the room in golden light. In the centre stood a crib. Four maids bowed deeply; he signalled for them to leave.
The room fell silent. It was warm in some places, cold in others, and there was a weight to it that pressed on him, yet somehow it also felt oddly light. He stood motionless, the steady sound of his own breathing loud in his ears.
He had faced countless battles without flinching, but now, now his heart pounded like a soldier's before his first charge.
Gathering his courage, he approached the crib. A small figure came into view, and he drew in a sharp breath.
An infant, her hair a shimmering gold, lay asleep without a care in the world. He stared, afraid even the faintest sound might wake her.
Gently, he brushed his forefinger across her cheek. Her skin was warm and impossibly soft. Carefully, he laid the rose beside her.
What a beautiful child you have given me, Róise.
A strand of golden hair had fallen across her forehead; he brushed it back, revealing a tiny star-shaped mark. Before he could question what it was, she opened her eyes.
They were golden, glowing, and they locked onto him. He froze, breath caught in his chest.
And then, she smiled.
A warmth surged through him, so strong it almost hurt. His chest tightened; a lump rose in his throat.
Slowly, a small smile tugged at his lips. She wrapped her tiny fingers around his, holding on with surprising strength, as if sharing in the joy that filled him. It wasn't only joy, it was something more profound, heavier, and yet full of light.
"Hello," he whispered. "I'm your father. It's nice to meet you, Órfhlaith*, my little princess."
And at that moment, nothing else in the world mattered.