Chapter 65: I Was Never Meant to Have This

Chapter 65: I Was Never Meant to Have This [Emperor Cassius’s Pov] Emperor’s memory: "Papa... I drew our family picture," she said, her voice full of pride, her little feet dashing toward me with that infectious energy only she could carry. I turned just in time to catch her before she stumbled. A paper flapped in her tiny hand like a bird in flight. I smiled—without realizing it—and picked her up, settling her on my lap. Her hair smelled faintly of wildflowers and ink, and her cheeks were smeared with streaks of paint. I took the picture from her hand. It was... a mess. A mess of color and odd shapes. The lines were crooked, the proportions utterly wrong, and the flowers looked more like clouds with legs. And yet— It was a masterpiece. Because in that picture... it was just the two of us. No one else. Just me and my daughter Lavinia, holding hands beneath a crooked sun and surrounded by red, gold, and blue smudges she proudly called flowers. "Look, Papa! We are holding hands—and I added flowers too!" I couldn’t speak. So I smiled. "I see," I murmured, brushing a smear of green from her soft cheek. And just like that— It hit me. A voice I hadn’t heard in decades. A memory buried so deep I’d forgotten it was mine. "I pray to that lord that you find happiness in the form of a child, my son. I wish you have a daughter who fills the emptiness in your heart." Her last words. The last words spoken by the maid who gave me life. A nameless woman who was dragged to execution by my father’s dogs—for daring to give birth to me— his shame. She looked at me as the guards pulled her away. Her wrists were bleeding. Her dress was torn. And yet, she smiled at me. I was six. Too young to understand why she was saying those words. Too numb to know why she sounded so calm—why her eyes were filled with love for a boy who would be left behind in a den of wolves. I never remembered her face again until now. Until this moment—holding my daughter in my lap. It’s been nearly twenty-five years, and yet the pain burned like fresh embers. I forgot how soft she sounded. How warm. I forgot because I needed to. Because after that, there was only the whip. Cold floors. Silent nights. Training, punishment, war. No warmth. No hands to hold. Just blood and rage. I realized love was weakness and hope was dangerous. So, I stopped hoping. I stopped believing. And decided I never wanted a family. Never. I saw what came of that. Saw what love earned you in the imperial palace. Death. Torture. Chains. You don’t cling to people in this place, not unless you want to dig their graves yourself. When Theon used to beg me to rest, I scoffed. "Shut up and bring more documents," I’d snarl. I preferred the battlefield over the throne room. The sword over the cradle. Scars over tenderness. People like Regis—the Grand Duke, beloved by nobles and children alike—they were born to be loved. Cherished. Blessed. But not me. I had no right to yearn for anything more. I was raised with steel. I bled for every breath I took. I thought—I knew—that love was not for monsters like me. Until... "Papa?" Her small voice pulled me back. She looked up at me with those bright red eyes—my eyes—expectant, proud, utterly unafraid. "Do you like my drawing, Papa?" I stared at her for a long moment. This child... she wasn’t supposed to exist in my world. And yet, here she was. Real. Solid. Warm in my lap, trusting me with all her heart. I laid my hand gently atop her head, fingers threading through her golden hair. "...We shall hang it in our treasure room," I said softly. She gasped. "Really?!" Her cheeks flushed pink with joy. It hit me like a blade to the chest. That smile. That innocence. It wasn’t mine to deserve. And yet—it was mine. She gave it freely. She chose me. "This is my first drawing, Papa! I made more! Do you want to see them too?" I gave her the most honest answer I could. "Yes. I would like to see every single one my daughter drew." Marella, standing nearby, chuckled. "Then I’ll go fetch the rest our princess made." My daughter, Lavinia, nodded eagerly, still swinging her legs on my lap. And I—I just watched her. Wondering. When did this happen? When did I allow a child into my world? When did I let her curl herself around my heart like sunlight cracking through iron? It started with curiosity, didn’t it? She was only three months old, alone in the abandoned East Wing. Forgotten like a mistake no one wanted to claim. I visited out of sheer impulse—to see why there is a baby voice in my palace. And when I saw her for the first time, she didn’t cry. Didn’t flinch when I looked down at her. She smiled. Like I was something worth smiling at. And from then onwards, I watched her. Observed her. From a distance at first. I told myself it was nothing. A distraction, perhaps. But every time she saw me, she reached out with those small arms. She babbled at me. Giggled. Crawled toward me without fear. Even as she grew, she never looked at me like the others did. She didn’t see a monster. A tyrant. She saw... me. And maybe, just maybe—that’s when it began. The walls around my heart—fortified for decades—began to crack. Bit by bit. Until now, there was nothing left but the truth. I, Emperor Cassius Devereux—once a man forged from rage and grief—found happiness. In a child. In my child. In Lavinia. My daughter. ...Maybe that woman—my mother—was right, after all. Maybe that day she didn’t just utter nonsense to comfort her son before dying like a criminal.Maybe she blessed me. Cursed me, even. With a heart. Because ever since my daughter entered my life, everything began to shift. The silence no longer felt comforting. The throne room no longer felt like home. The sword in my hand felt heavier, as if it now had something to protect instead of simply to destroy. I never thought I’d know what it meant to be loved. Not feared. Not obeyed. Not worshipped.Loved. And now... now that I know the weight of that gift—someone dares to threaten it. Someone dares to look upon my daughter with schemes in their hearts. To test my patience.To see if the tyrant has gone soft.To see if the emperor who brought nations to their knees would hesitate... now that he has something precious to lose. Let them wonder. Let them whisper. Let them think I’ve grown gentle because my hands now carry a child instead of a sword. Because the truth is—they’ve made the gravest mistake of all. They’ve made her my weakness. But they forgot. A man like me doesn’t lose because of a weakness.He kills for it. For the first time in my life, I have something—someone—I cannot afford to lose. And that is precisely why I will never let it happen. The world knows now she is my heart. And the world should tremble, because when you try to take a tyrant’s heart, you don’t just start a war. You invite annihilation. "...Oh. Looks like the princess fell asleep," Theon’s voice broke through the thunder in my mind. I blinked, my gaze dropping down to the small, warm weight curled in my arms. She had indeed fallen asleep—mid-sentence, mid-giggle, mid-pride as she tried to show me every single one of her absurdly colorful masterpieces. Her cheek rested against my chest, soft breaths fogging the gold buttons of my coat. I smiled without thinking. "She was so happy today," Nerina said, her voice gentle, a whisper wrapped in affection. "Really?" I murmured, brushing a stray strand of golden hair from Lavinia’s face. It clung to her lashes, tickling her nose. Nerina nodded, hands clasped before her. "Yes, she was happy to receive Sir Ravick as her personal knight. And Lord Thalein brought apple pie just for her—she said it was the best day ever." I hummed in acknowledgment, shifting slightly so her head rested more comfortably against my shoulder. The warmth she left on me... it burned. Softly. Permanently. "Did you remember something, Your Majesty?" Theon asked. I looked at him, puzzled. "What do you mean?" Theon hesitated, then gave a faint smile. "Your eyes... today they look a little sad. But also... warm. Like they’ve remembered something precious." I turned my gaze down to Lavinia. She wriggled in her sleep, letting out a small sound and nuzzling deeper into my chest, as if she knew we were speaking about her. I exhaled slowly, quietly. "Yes," I said. "I remembered her last words." There was silence. "...Her?" Theon echoed, confused. I didn’t answer immediately. Even Lord Gregor, sitting silently on his seat, seemed to stop breathing. I didn’t look up at them. And then, calmly—quietly—I spoke. "The one who gave birth to me." Stunned silence filled the room. Even Lord Gregor stiffened. But I didn’t look away. I wasn’t ashamed. I looked down at the sleeping child in my arms and smiled. "Her last words were that I would have a daughter who would fill the emptiness in my heart." I closed my eyes, letting that memory settle in my bones. "And I suppose... she blessed me that day."