Vines and the city walls were already blanketed with morning glories.

The flowers swayed in the wind. From the heavens above, it seemed like songs from paradise heralded a new day.

The frail girl curled up on her bed, gazing at the sun outside.

She stood, reaching her hand out the window to feel the icy cold.

The harsh winter was approaching.

Her eyes were red and swollen, as if she’d just cried. Her thin frame swayed precariously by the window, ready to collapse.

A sparrow fixed its tiny eyes on her, then fluttered onto her outstretched palm.

"Little Sparrow, a new day has begun," the girl said with a smile. "But I can’t be happy. My mother passed away yesterday."

A trace of sadness flickered in her eyes as she spoke to the bird. "After her funeral yesterday, Father is remarrying today. I wonder what my new mother will be like?"

The sparrow listened, its gaze meeting hers, and let out a few mournful chirps.

"Winter is so cold, Little Sparrow. Will you leave me too?"

The sparrow trilled a crisp reply.

The girl fell silent, her hand trembling slightly.

The sparrow wobbled, flapped its wings, and flew away.

She took a deep breath of the frigid air and shut the window.

"Hiss!" She gasped as the window’s edge sliced her finger. Blood seeped from a shallow cut.

She grabbed a handkerchief from her bedside, pressing it to the wound. The cloth quickly stained red, her finger paling further in the winter chill.

"Princess, time for breakfast," a knock sounded at the door.

She paused, then called out, "Leave it here. I’ll eat inside."

"But His Majesty says it’s important. You must attend," came a timid, young voice from outside.

She sighed. "Wait a moment. I’ll be right out."

She slipped off her nightgown, revealing skin pale as snow. She stared at her budding chest and took a steadying breath.

Dressed quickly, she admired her reflection in the mirror and offered a satisfied smile.

"I’m coming."

She opened the door. A servant stood waiting, head bowed.

The corridor felt familiar yet strangely foreign. Servants stole glances at her, their eyes filled with pity.

That was why she couldn’t smile. Her mother had been assassinated. After yesterday’s funeral, her father’s remarriage today meant her status as princess would plummet.

She pressed her lips together, silent.

Led to a door, the servant stopped.

"Princess, everyone’s already inside."

Through the gap, chatter and clinking glasses spilled out, a sliver of light escaping.

She watched the servant leave, hesitated, then pushed the door open.

Inside, dazzling lights shimmered from magical chandeliers. For a moment, she felt not in a palace but a seedy nightclub.

The glow illuminated her serene face as she walked in, chin held high.

A middle-aged man in a crown boomed loudly, swirling his wine glass. He hadn’t noticed his daughter enter.

In his arms lounged a seductive woman in a wedding gown, batting her eyelashes at him.

"Father…" the girl whispered. Her voice drowned in the hall’s noise.

She stepped before him, but he was lost in pleasure, oblivious. Guards on either side watched her with pitying eyes.

She hated that look. Hated it. She was strong—she didn’t need pity.

Lifting her head, she abandoned grace and shouted with a trembling voice, "Father!"

Silence crashed over the room. Every movement froze. All heads turned.

The man’s hand stilled. The woman in his arms shot the girl a venomous glare.

Seeing his daughter and the stares around him, his face flushed crimson, then purple, then pale. He forced a strained smile and beckoned. "Annie, my dear daughter. You’ve arrived."

Annie said nothing, fists clenched hidden in her sleeves. It made her sick—this fake fatherly act.

Who held a wedding the day after his wife’s funeral? Scum. Monster. Trash! She cursed inwardly, but bowed her head with obedient sweetness. "Father, I’m here."

"Oh? And who’s this?" the woman drawled, stretching the words.

"Meet my precious daughter, Annie. You’ll be her mother now," the man chuckled dryly.

Annie forced a smile. It felt like bile rising.

Why not rebel? Why not shame them at this wedding? Expose their filth, scream at her father—but she’d be called ill-bred. He’d lose face. Wouldn’t that be best?

But she couldn’t. She was just a powerless princess. She feared the cost.

She couldn’t. She couldn’t.

Wiping away tears, she perfected her act.

"Oh, my future darling daughter?" The woman stepped forward, lifting Annie’s chin to study her delicate face. "You’ll be a beauty. Any suitors yet?"

Annie shook her head and stepped back, freeing her chin.

The king cleared his throat, then announced loudly, "Friends! Today is my wedding. I’ve gathered you to witness this sacred moment."

Applause erupted. Nobles and foreign royals cheered.

Annie retreated, finding an empty seat.

Respectable-looking nobles and monarchs glanced her way, whispering.

She hated their stares but endured them. It infuriated her.

Why endure? Why tolerate this? She was sick of it!

She feigned elegance, pouring herself wine. Her fingertips tapped the table as she scanned the room from the corner of her eye.

She’d rather be forgotten than endure this shameful spotlight.

Her mother buried yesterday, her father remarrying today—it was the world’s cruelest joke. How could he be so vile? For a moment, she longed to kill him.

But she lacked the strength. Spoiled as a princess, she’d had no training. Grief had drained her; she barely ate, frail as a leaf. She couldn’t fight the guards.

She sighed, sipping the wine, watching her reflection ripple in the glass.

The liquid shimmered pale in the light. She blew gently, creating ripples.

After a long stare, she set the glass down.

Not worth drinking. Just looking. This place is the filthiest I’ve ever seen! She scanned the room with disgust.

She breathed deeply, forcing calm. Rage burned in her—she wanted to burn it all down.

Mother must be furious in the afterlife.

The wedding began.

The long-awaited band blared horns. Guests lining the red carpet cheered.

The wind carried bitter blessings from afar.

Annie closed her eyes. At this revolting ceremony, she finally slipped into unconsciousness.

…

Time passed. She woke from a daze.

She’d had a nightmare. Its details were hazy.

She’d stood on a hellish battlefield, sword raised high. Corpses surrounded her—servants, friends, family, their faces familiar.

She’d dreamed of being an executioner, slaughtering those she loved. Yet in that terrifying dream, soaked in cold sweat, she’d felt a bloody, savage joy.

"Princess! You’re awake!" A young, familiar face swam into view. The servant cried out happily.

"Issac. It’s you," Annie murmured, touching his cheek. Her hand looked ghostly pale, bloodless. Her body swung between feverish heat and icy chill. She couldn’t tell which she felt.

Maybe her body was warm, but her heart was frozen.

Only a servant cared for her while she was unconscious.

"Where’s Father?" Annie wiped Issac’s tears, her voice weak.

"He’s on his honeymoon with your new mother," the servant spat, teeth clenched in anger.

Annie closed her eyes again. Silent tears slid down her cheeks.

Of course. Her father would never care.

She shut her eyes, praying to heaven and earth.