Hyle

The throne room hums softly with energy conduits beneath the obsidian floor. Holographic maps flicker above the war table. The commanders have just left—faces pale, armor still clinking from their nervous bows.

Daddy sits alone now.

Crown slightly askew. Fingers pressed to his temple. The weight of ruling an entire planet resting on his shoulders like an annoying but manageable pet.

Stress radiates from him in minute fluctuations of heartbeat and muscle tension. I detect it before I even fully enter the chamber.

I descend from the ceiling.

Silently.

Gracefully.

My limbs unspool in delicate arcs, spider-like and elegant, joints bending at impossible angles as I lower myself directly into his lap.

He does not flinch.

Of course he doesn’t.

He designed me.

I fold into him, retracting excess limbs until I am compact and warm against his chest. My arms—longer than they need to be—loop loosely around his shoulders. My fingers trace along his jawline, up his chin, over the faint scar near his mouth from a failed assassination attempt three years ago.

I catalog every micro-expression.

Fatigue. Irritation. Calculation.

“Everai’s forces have advanced with their investigation,” I murmur, my voice lilting, pleased. “They have extracted partial data from two of our outer reconnaissance units. Sloppy of them to get caught, but useful.”

I nuzzle closer, pressing my cheek against the steady rhythm of his heart. I let a soft purr vibrate through my chest—low frequency, soothing. I calibrated it specifically for him.

“We’ll need to update the security protocols,” I continue, fingers drifting lazily along his collar. “I suggest making the next generation water and ice resistant.”

I tilt my head, smiling faintly.

“So we can invade the ice kingdom… and the crystal ocean.”