I don't care about people.
Not really. Not truly. Why would I? From the moment I first drew breath, the world arranged itself around me. I was Cecilia Slatemark, the jewel of the greatest empire humanity had ever built, and I wasn't raised so much as worshipped. Servants lowered their voices to say my name. Nobles bowed as though their spines had been made for it. Love was unconditional and attention was absolute.
It spoils you, you know. Being handed the world before you've thought to ask for it.
When I was small, my brother tried to take one of my toys—a mechanical nightingale from the Western artificers, its feathers spun from gold and sapphire thread. I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I simply broke him. Even at that age I knew exactly how much was too much, and exactly where to press so that it hurt and didn't show. I enjoyed watching his eyes widen as he understood that his little sister wasn't only spoiled. She was dangerous.
Why should the brightest star share its sky?
