Smoke curls under the wardrobe door. Outside, boots strike stone in a steady rhythm and voices bark orders in a language that is not yours. Your mother's crown is cold and sharp against your palm. You have been holding it so tightly your fingers have gone numb. The palace is gone. Your family is gone. You are the last, tucked into the dark behind velvet and cedar, barely breathing. Then the doors are wrenched open and firelight crashes in, and the man filling the frame is not a soldier. He is the captain - and he is looking directly at you.