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But that’s probably just me projecting my feelings onto those guards. Being at the military front right now is like standing in the eye of the storm. All around me is chaos. But what strikes me most is that the small nuisances that bothered me when I first arrived, the constant smell of manure and noisy crickets, are no longer present. The army camp carries the bitter scent of metal, from the large cannons that have just arrived from the capital. The crickets have no doubt fled for safer pastures.

And for me, this campsite of death is my safest pasture. The irony is not lost on me that the most dangerous location in the entire Erudian Empire is the safest place for me to survive. However, if anything, my guard has gone up and I rarely leave without mute Emma tucked by my side. In times of chaos such as now, killing a princess could be easily swept under the rug as a ‘malfunction of equipment’ or ‘the young princess was playing in the wrong place at the wrong time’.

Emma isn’t talking to me and there is no one to converse with me, much like life was in the Rose Palace. So I think. And I don’t think like Maria, whose naivete has caused her to be attacked and harmed constantly. I think like Winter, a Winter who not only wants to live, but live very well.

Just being alive is a privilege in its own way I see, when the minute Emma and I step out of my tent, two soldiers walk by with a shrouded stretcher between the two of them. A hand of the deceased flops out from underneath the white fabric and it is smooth and wrinkle-free, easily the hand of a young man.

I do a short Helionic prayer for the deceased and both of the soldiers nod their respect before they carry off the body to where the rest of them are stored. I haven’t been down to the area where the bodies are being cremated and buried. But with the boiling hot days upon us, occasionally a ghastly scent will make its way to where I am. The scent of death, I have now realized.

All this death has made us all vulnerable. I can see it in the desperate eyes of the soldiers in the mess hall, who chug their ale in shuddering gasps and are no longer in the mood for banter. I see it in the overwhelmed nurse quivering in a corner where she thinks no one can see her, whose blue medical dress is stained with blood and she clutches her white cap between her teeth to quiet the sound of her keening cries.

.....

The camp has moved back enough miles for the second most prosperous city in the empire, Belhelm, to begin to be evacuated. That is how dire this situation has become.

And with this worsening situation, I hate to say it, comes an opportunity.

There’s a reason why my marketing class dedicated an entire unit to breaking down those sad or sentimental advertisements that tug at your heartstrings. Humans connect more intimately in times of pain, grief, and hopelessness. So now it’s time for me to employ the most tried and true trick in the Transmigrated Kid’s Guide to Survival handbook and hope it works.

Is this war my father’s fault? No. But as the emperor and supreme commander of the army, the blame falls on his shoulders alone. And how heavy it must feel to be the head bearing the crown, right now.

If anything, the blame falls on our ancestors who first took this province from Sarsaval. If there’s another party who is to blame, it would also be the runaway baron who escaped to Sarsaval and incentivized them to wage war against us. And finally, the blame also falls on the deranged, rogue transmigrator who is using their dangerous knowledge to cause untold casualties and fear.

I do not have the luxury of playing by the rules, this I fully understand. But I’ll play them my way, rather than dance like a puppet to the whims of Empress Katya or Lord Bromley. So when I crawl out of bed in the middle of the night one day and Emma is not nearby in her familiar position, I’m almost glad that there is no one there to guilt trip me for the emotional blackmail I am about to do. Almost.

I don’t exit from the front, instead electing to painstakingly crawl underneath tug out one of the weighted edges of my tent and belly crawl out without ruining my nightgown. It’s as tough as it sounds. But 20 or so minutes later, I brush off the minuscule dirt that did get on my nightgown before heading in towards the black tent I’ve always regarded from a distance. The emperor’s tent. My father’s tent.

I have seen neither hide nor hair of Emperor Helio since I arrived at this military camp, making him a terrible host and an even worse father. The only clue I ever have to ascertain his whereabouts is when his special guards stand menacingly outside the strategy tent and when the main division of his battalions are out in the warzone.

I let out a breath, pat my chubby cheeks, and tug at my twin braids for luck. “Winter, you got this.”

It’s time, time for me to use the all-too-unrealistic transmigration trope of winning over your icy dad with cuteness and hugs like we all live in a fucking Disney movie. Of course, my scars, trauma, and trust issues beg to differ.

WE ARE INTERRUPTING YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAMMING FOR AN INTERVIEW WITH FUTURE WINTER, 24 HOURS LATER.

Producer: So Winter, what made you think that after years of your dad not acknowledging you, a midnight hug would have you both holding hands and singing kumbaya?

Me: That’s harsh, Dave. *cue sitcom laugh* With all due respect, I was low on options and more than a little desperate due to a literal war going on around me and nearly being assassinated more times in just as many weeks. Look, I’m a kid technically! I just want to enjoy my childhood a little! So I decided to give this method a try. But unfortunately, there was no way for me to have seen into the near future right after that hug, otherwise best believe I wouldn’t have bothered with that nonsense.

BACK TO YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAM IN THE PRESENT.

Even in the moment, I am doubting my actions. The guards were surprisingly lenient when I approached my father’s pitch black tent with my best impression of Bambi’s eyes and a soft, sweet voice like I was about to burst into tears any second.

But when the black curtained entrance flapped shut behind me and hid the little light that came from the stars, I feel as if I’ve just dived into the deep end of a pool without being able to swim.

As befitting his status, Emperor Helio’s tent is about as cavernous as if you shoved both Prince Julian’s and my tent together into one space. This is why the sudden darkness within it feels ominous, as one flickering candle that is about to run out of wax sits on his crowded desk of maps and papers.

There is a man behind that desk, my father. But unlike the unshaken, imposing character who had dominated the entire throne room, his head was buried deep in his hands and my father did not move when I entered although I know he heard me. The malevolent, despondent energy writhing around his solitary figure is all but visible to my eyes. A sign taped to his forehead with the words “FUCK OFF” written in bold letters would be redundant.

This must be the fourth or fifth time I’ve seen my dad since I woke up in this world and every time, this time included, is just as unpleasant as the first.

But I still feel a modicum of sympathy. As the figurehead of the battle, all the spit and curses of disgruntled soldiers and citizens largely fall on his head alone. I soon find myself at the foot of the desk, the trembling flame illuminating the coiled muscles in his hand and the tendril of ink-black hair that hang over it.

“F-Father?” I want to slap myself after my voice unavoidably trembles, but the man before me has no reaction.

“Daddy?”

With the bravery of a thousand knights, I tentatively step around the desk so there is no barrier between us and set a hand on my father’s leg. Nothing happens.

The man is so tall, I realize I’ve also undertaken a rock climbing challenge as I swallow the embarrassment and scramble up Emperor Helio’s leg before burying my burning face in his shirt and wrapping my arms around as much of him as I can.

And that was how I found myself hugging the man almost single-handedly responsible for my misery because he couldn’t keep it in his pants or take responsibility for my health and safety like a real dad, instead of snuggling under the soft blanket in my tent. A bitter taste crawls up my throat as I cling to the emperor like an angry, little koala with abandonment issues. My eyes burn in a familiar way in my eye sockets, but I just lie to myself that I’m just feeling the emotions of past Winter, who lived and died so terribly without any answers.

Why did you bring me back to the imperial palace if you were just going to throw me to the wolves?

Since you’re also a bastard, don’t you already know how hard it is to be the innocent child born out of wedlock in the imperial family?

And am I hugging a statue or a person?

Just as I’m about to release his neck and go back, hat in hand, to my tent like a schmuck, I feel a pressure on my back. It’s my father, his arms wrapping around mine and surrounding me with the intense warmth of his much larger frame. I haven’t had this kind of hug since... since ever.

When I was Maria, I always longed for a father figure in my life. I wished more than anything to have what I saw my friends had: A harried, middle-aged man in a rumpled suit arriving home with enough hugs and kisses to go around. Someone to drag me along to go fishing, even if I ended up hating the activity, who would teach me how to shoot my first hoop and cheer at my soccer games. This hug is a reminder of all the things I never enjoyed in my past life, or this one for the matter until this very moment.

Something in my chest softens into mush, before I harden my heart once more into stone. After all, it’s not like he sought me out in the first place.

Once I’ve regained my bearings, I wrap my arms even tighter around the emperor and think to myself, “How alone you must be, Emperor Helio. You don’t even realize how much you’ve isolated yourself, do you? Use me to fill up the imperial bloodline you depleted. And I’ll use you to live a better life as a princess.”

This is but a minor, one-time transaction, so in the future, Emperor Helio may perhaps think of me once in a while and intercede a little bit sooner the next time I’m thrown in the Tower when Empress Katya’s insidious schemes trap me.

It’s the least the emperor could do for me, I reconcile with myself as I walk out a few minutes later. But I’m not sure whose emotions were more knotted up by that hug. Him, or me?

With my feelings entangled in an impossible knot, I get to work undoing the first of my complicated relationships. My friendship with Emma.