Julia carried one precious memory from an otherwise desolate childhood: Fernan Caesar, the North's formidable ruler. Learning he would become her husband, she permitted herself to believe in happiness for the first time. That fragile hope disintegrated upon their reunion. The gentlemanly figure of her recollection had vanished—replaced by a man of unbending coldness. His generosity extended only to material indulgences: castles to remodel, jewels to collect, celebrations to orchestrate. What he withheld was far more precious—his presence, his warmth, his regard. His indictment was absolute: "Your heart is of no use to me." Drowning beneath the weight of one-sided love, Julia perceived only one path to liberation. Standing at the cliff's edge, she etched her husband's striking features into her mind, recognizing this as her final moment of agency. She would love him no longer. She would escape her captivity. As Fernan's anguished voice reached her ears, Julia relinquished her grip on solid ground and fell into darkness.