[Lavinia’s Pov—Imperial Palace, Cassius’s Chamber]
Did I just... hear that right?
Was that a hallucination?
Does Papa think I am six or ten?
"Face the wall and raise your hands up..." I whispered in a daze, repeating Papa’s words like they were some ancient curse from the scrolls of shame. "Did he really just say that to me?"
I turned to him slowly, a very wobbly, very nervous smile glued to my face. "Papa... you... do remember, right? I’m fifteen. As in one-five. Practically sixteen. Basically an adult in some kingdoms."
He didn’t even lift his eyes from the book. He just licked his finger, turned a page, and murmured in that calm, bone-chilling tone of his,
"I don’t need to be reminded of my daughter’s age. I recall precisely how old you are, Lavinia."
"Well, good!" I clapped my hands. "Then surely you realize that telling a nearly sixteen-year-old girl to face the wall with her arms in the air is dramatically humiliating and borderline child abuse."
He paused. Just for a beat. I almost saw the corner of his eye twitch.
Then he turned another page. "Punishment," he said slowly, "does not look at ages. It looks at the crime."
And there it was. The Grand Emperor’s logic. Cold. Brutal. Unshakable.
"But, Papa—!" I tried, desperation leaking into my voice like a cracked dam.
"Hmm?" he said, not even glancing up, just adjusting the way the light hit his page.
I inhaled deeply. Time to use my weapon: Emotional Guilt™. "I thought..." My voice trembled. "I thought you wanted me to be happy again. I thought you missed me. I thought you wanted to forgive me."
He closed the book with a quiet thud. That... that didn’t feel like a good sign. He finally looked up, that sharp, unreadable gaze pinning me to the velvet carpet.
"I do want to forgive you," he said.
"And the path to forgiveness," he continued in his oh-so-grand, oh-so-saintly tone, "runs through the Wall of Shame. Now get up, go stand there, and lift those arms like you mean it."
I gaped. "You can’t be serious."
"People will see me!"
"Papa, I’m a princess and the next empress."
"And I’m a father. One of us has to care when you sneak out and nearly give half the palace a heart attack."
"...I only did it once."
I groaned so loud, the chandeliers probably rattled. "Fine! Fine, I’m going! But if I get muscle cramps or emotional damage, it’s on you!"
"I’ll send you ointment," he said dryly, reopening his book with a satisfied flick.
So here I am, dear diary. A fifteen-year-old heir to the imperial throne. Standing like a scarecrow against a marble wall, arms up like I’m summoning rain.
If I survive this... I swear, my children will never know what a ’wall punishment’ is.
[Imperial Palace, Cassius’s Chamber, five minutes later]
"Papa..." I whined dramatically. "It’s been at least one hour—okay fine—five minutes! But my arms are going numb!"
I dared to lower them a teeny-tiny bit—
"HANDS. STRAIGHT," came the growl from across the room.
Does he have a third eye or what? Hidden somewhere on the back of his head? Installed by the royal surveillance department?
I peeked sideways. Marshi, my traitor of a divine beast, was sprawled out like royalty himself on a silk cushion, snoring softly, while his master—the future of the empire—was dying slowly against a wall.
"Your Majesty..." The heavy doors creaked, and in walked Theon. He stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes landed on me. He blinked.
"BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!" He doubled over. "I—I can’t—Princess—you’re—you’re facing the wall! HAHAHA!"
Papa didn’t even look up. Just picked up a pen and flung it like a trained assassin. It hit Theon square on the forehead.
"Shut up," Papa said flatly. "Unless you want to join her."
Theon stood straight like a guilty puppy, rubbing his forehead. "I—I’m sorry, Your Majesty," he sniffled, trying really hard not to laugh. "I actually... um... need your signature here."
Papa glanced at the paper. "What is it?"
"A leave form," Theon said proudly, as if he’d just submitted the greatest document in history.
Papa narrowed his eyes. "Who’s applying?"
"Because," he said, puffing his chest, "I and my wife—bless her sweet, patient soul—never went on a honeymoon after our beautiful marriage. And now, the stars have aligned, and we decided to travel for our honeymoon. So. I. Need. A. Leave. Just. Sign. It."
And actually asked, "What do you think? Should I sign it?"
Oh. So now I get a say? While being punished? Sure, why not?
I turned to Theon, that traitor who laughed at me with a sinister smirk and said, "Reject it."
Theon’s mouth dropped. "Whaaaaaaaaaat?! Whyyyyy?!"
"REJECTED!" I declared, standing tall despite my aching arms. "You laughed at me. Unforgivable crime. Instant disqualification."
Theon gasped like I’d just kicked his puppy. "BUT—PRINCESS! That’s not my fault! You just looked so—so—so funny with your little elbows poking out like chicken wings!"
"CHICKEN WINGS?!" I screeched.
Papa sipped his tea, clearly enjoying this more than he should.
Theon began hopping in frustration, flailing his arms like a deranged duck. "PLEASE! HAVE MERCY! DO NOT DENY ME MY HONEYMOON! I’ve already booked the beach hut! The hut, Princess!"
I sniffed. "Then you can take your honeymoon... on the palace rooftop. We have sandbags up there."
Theon fell to his knees. "You’re worse than your father!"
"Thank you," Papa and I said in unison.
Theon let out a dramatic gasp, glared at us both like we’d just ruined his will to live, and stormed off muttering, "I should have never applied for this job..." I had dreams, aspirations—!"
THUD.Somewhere in the hallway. Something fell. Probably him. Again.
I was still blinking at the doorway when Papa’s voice sliced through the air like a dagger dipped in cold authority, "Lavinia. I’m watching you."
I sighed deeply and flopped into a pout. "Gosh, Papa! You already grounded me for an entire week, and now you’re throwing punishments like it’s a royal sale day? Don’t you think you’re being a tiny bit cruel to your only daughter?"
He turned, his expression colder than the northern winds. "No."
I groaned and crossed my arms like a sulking toddler. "You’re acting like I eloped with a pirate and set the stables on fire."
He didn’t reply right away. Instead, there was a pause. A silence that lingered in the air, heavy and strange.
And then... his voice dropped—softer, low enough that it tugged at something in my chest.
"I thought..." he exhaled, still not looking at me. "I thought something happened to you."
He still wouldn’t meet my eyes. "Do you know how it feels for a parent when they hear their child is missing?"He took a shallow breath and continued, "It’s like... someone is trying to rip the air out of your lungs—slowly, painfully. And no matter how much you want to collapse, you can’t. You just keep gasping and waiting, praying, until they come back."
I stared. My throat tightened.
I didn’t know what to say.
Maybe because I never expected this much love from a parent. I didn’t know what it felt like—to be loved so deeply, so desperately, that your absence could shatter someone.
But Papa... Papa loved me like that.
"I’m... really sorry, Papa," I whispered. "I didn’t mean to scare you. I promise, I won’t do it again. I’ll behave. I swear on all my shoes, even the sparkly ones. Please forgive me?"
He finally looked up.
And for a second, just one second, his face softened—the terrifying ruler melted into the tired, worried father I never realized was always there.
"...Alright," he said. "Come here."
I ran into his arms before he could change his mind. He caught me—tight, protective, like he was afraid I’d disappear again. I clung to him, burying my face into the safety of his embrace.
He looked down at me, brushing back my hair, and murmured, "What if you do it again?"
"I won’t," I said quickly. Then paused... and added, "But if I do... I’ll face the wall outside. I swear. No complaining, no escape attempts."
That finally pulled a breath of laughter from him.A real one.
He shook his head and ruffled my hair, his voice gentler now. "Stubborn child."
Then his eyes moved to my arms, his expression darkening a little. "Does it hurt?"
I held them out dramatically and gave him my best pitiful expression. "It’s throbbing. I think I need royal-level medical attention. Maybe snacks too."
He raised an eyebrow but smiled. "Massage first. Then snacks."
I beamed. And without thinking, I wrapped my arms around his neck again, squeezing him tightly.
"I love you so much, Papa..." I whispered. "Please don’t be angry anymore. When you’re mad at me... it hurts."
His arms tightened around me. And with one more ruffle of my hair, he said quietly, "Alright. No more anger."
And in that moment, I clung to my home.