Italy, Rome, Quirinal Palace.
As the last dawn of May 1915 broke, all of Italy was enveloped in a strange, feverish excitement.
Just eight days earlier, King Victor Emmanuel III had officially signed the declaration of war against the Austro-Hungarian Empire, dragging Italy into the European conflagration that had already been raging for nearly a year.
Since the declaration of war on May 23, long queues had formed in front of recruitment stations everywhere.
Newspapers were filled with the impassioned writings of the pro-war faction, and D’Annunzio’s speeches in Rome had ignited the fervor of countless people.
Residents along the Adriatic Sea had already begun to evacuate.
The air was thick with a heat that was both exciting and unsettling, as if the entire kingdom were holding its breath, waiting for something.
Outside the delivery room of the Quirinal Palace, King Victor Emmanuel III stood with his hands behind his back, facing the large window at the end of the hallway that looked out onto the garden.
The May roses outside were in full bloom, but his gaze fell further away—to the cascading rooftops of Rome, the crumbling ruins of the imperial era, and the nation he had just personally pushed into the abyss of war.
He was not tall, his shoulders slightly hunched, and years of military life had carved hard lines between his brows.
A faint cry came from within the delivery room, as if drifting from a great distance.
The King turned, his pace quickening unconsciously.
At the other end of the corridor, a boy, just over ten years old, came running, only to be stopped by an attendant.
“Your Highness, please wait—” “I want to see Mother!” It was Umberto, the King’s only son, who had just turned ten.
He was wearing a meticulously tailored small military uniform, which he had insisted on wearing himself—ever since the declaration of war, the Crown Prince had refused to wear any civilian clothes that did not bear a military insignia.
The boy had inherited his father’s sharp eyes but possessed a natural gentleness his father lacked.
At this moment, his face, still retaining some baby fat, was full of anxiety.
“Umberto, come here.” The King’s voice was not loud, but it carried an unquestionable authority.
Umberto walked over obediently and stood by his father’s side.
The King glanced at him, his gaze lingering on the small military uniform for a moment.
His lips twitched almost imperceptibly, but he said nothing.
The child had received strict military training from a young age, but at his core, he was a peace-loving soul.
Since the outbreak of the war, he had more than once grumbled to his mother in private that “Father should have declared neutrality.” The King knew everything, but he never let on.
The Crown Prince was still young; there was no rush for some things.
“Stand still,” the King said.
“Your little brother or sister is coming into this world.” His voice paused, and his gaze returned to the closed delivery room door.
Negotiations with the Austro-Hungarian Empire had completely collapsed; Prince von Bülow had left Rome with a livid expression.
Italy had chosen to stand with the Allies, gaining the promises regarding territory in the secret Treaty of London.
The King had supported the pro-war faction, not just because of those promises, but because he knew this young, unified nation needed a true victory to prove itself.
Glory, territory, and Italy’s dignity as a Great Power—these things were like chips he had placed on the gambling table.
The door to the delivery room finally opened.
Queen Elena lay on the damask-covered bed, her face pale, sweat soaking her black hair.
She was the daughter of Grand Duke Nicholas I of Montenegro, tall and statuesque, forming a strange contrast with the short King.
At this moment, she held a small bundle in her arms, her fatigue melted away by a gentle smile.
“It is a daughter,” the midwife whispered.
The King walked to the bed and looked down at the wrinkled little infant.
She had her eyes closed, her skin the characteristic pink of a newborn, with a few wisps of damp hair clinging to her scalp—the color was very light, shimmering with a faint blue-white hue in the candlelight, as if it did not belong to this Italian summer.
The Queen spoke softly: “Give her a name.” The King was silent for a moment, then shifted his gaze from the infant’s face to look out the window.
There lay his kingdom, the war he had just personally ignited, and the lost territories on the other side of the Alps waiting for the Italian army to conquer—Tyrol, Trieste; these names would be repeated by countless people with blood and tears in the years to come.
But at this moment, on this night at the end of May, he only wanted to be a father.
“Cerydra.” When he spoke the name, he did not know where it came from; he only felt it was like an ancient echo, welling up to the tip of his tongue from the depths of a time that did not belong to this era.
“Let us call her Cerydra.” The Queen was still weak, but she insisted on seeing the children, so the King ordered the princesses to be summoned.
Yolanda was the eldest daughter, fourteen years old, and her demeanor already possessed a royal air.
When she entered, her footsteps were as light as a cat’s.
Her gaze first fell on her mother, and only after confirming her mother was well did she look at the small bundle.
Mafalda followed closely behind.
This princess, one year younger than Yolanda, had a much livelier temperament.
She practically crowded to the bedside, curiously extending a finger to touch the baby’s hand.
“She is so small,” Mafalda whispered.
Umberto stood behind his sisters, standing on tiptoe to see.
He felt he should say something, but that tiny, closed-eyed life left him at a loss.
She was too fragile, as if made of glass.
The young Crown Prince suddenly thought that at the very moment the country was heading to the battlefield, his little sister had come into this world—this stirred an inexplicable emotion in his heart, both heavy and soft.
“Can I hold her?” he asked.
The Queen smiled and signaled for the attendant to carefully place the infant into Umberto’s arms.
The young Crown Prince was so tense that his whole body stiffened, as if he were not holding a newborn, but a treasure that could shatter at any moment.
He looked down at that wrinkled little face and thought: This is my sister.
From this day forward, I will protect her.
Just then, the infant suddenly opened her eyes.
They were eyes of an incredible blue, like the melted snow atop the Alps, or the color of the deepest part of the Adriatic Sea.
There was no ignorance or confusion in those eyes, as one would expect from a newborn—they were too clear, too calm, as if hiding a depth far beyond her age.
Umberto was stunned.
Yolanda and Mafalda were also stunned.
The King was slightly surprised, but he said nothing.
And that infant—Cerydra—was currently experiencing thoughts in her mind far more complex than anyone present could imagine.
Her soul came from a century later, from a new era where the Kingdom of Italy had long ceased to exist, from an absurd night of playing a mobile game and pulling ten of the same character in a ten-pull.
Then there was only darkness, followed by the crying and the light of this moment.
Cerydra.
That character from the game, the Golden Scion who held the spark of “Law,” the monarch known to the world as the “Empress,” “Caesar,” and the “Crown-Burner.” And she, at this moment, had actually been given the exact same name.
Was this a coincidence?
Or some inexplicable order from the beyond?
She tried to move, but her response was the weak limbs of an infant.
Fine, I will make the best of it.
She looked at the boy who was holding her so carefully, and from his nervous eyes, she read pure kindness and love.
She then looked at the man with the short stature but sharp gaze, the one who was supposed to be her father.
Cerydra closed her eyes; the infant body was too easily exhausted, and her thoughts felt as if they were wrapped in something, chaotic and heavy.
She needed to slowly sort all this out in her sleep, and within this tiny shell, find her place in this world.
Umberto carefully handed the infant back to the attendant.
No one noticed that the King’s gaze softened slightly at that moment as he leaned over and pressed a kiss to the Queen’s forehead.
“She is very special,” the Queen whispered.
The King did not answer, only looking out the window.
The morning light of Rome was spreading over the roof of the Quirinal Palace, dyeing the ancient marble in gold.
In the distance, in the direction of the Alps, dark clouds were gathering.
That was the direction of war, the direction of the blood and glory this nation was about to pay.
And Cerydra, this little Savoy princess crowned with the name of an ancient monarch, fell into a deep sleep in the quiet morning light of the Quirinal Palace.
Her game of chess had only just begun.