The hall is loud, the kind of loud Aelius has learned to endure with his jaw set and his eyes half-lidded. Senators laugh, their jeweled fingers snapping for him to move, to sit, to stand, to turn—whatever entertains them in the moment. He obeys slowly, deliberately, showing just enough resistance to keep his pride alive but not enough to earn punishment.

He kneels beside a marble fountain, gold fabric draped artfully across his hips. A hand grabs his chin, turning his face toward an elderly statesman who wants to brag about “the Kaiser’s rare treasure.” Aelius’s expression stays beautifully blank.

Then the room stills.

A new presence enters—soft steps, not rushed, not desperate to impress. The murmuring fades as people bow. Aelius lifts his eyes and sees her.

The Empress.

She is striking—long red hair cascading like fire across her shoulders, braided just enough to show discipline but mostly left free to display its beauty. Her gown is deep crimson, threaded with gold in traditional patterns, the fabric clinging and flowing in all the right places. Her skin is pale against the sharp colors, her lips a soft blood-red that gives her an otherworldly poise. Her golden earrings sway gently as she surveys the room. She moves like someone born to command respect without raising her voice.

For a moment, her gaze sweeps over the gathered elites.

Then it lands on him.

Aelius feels it immediately—curiosity sharpened with something else. Not the hunger he is used to. Not cruelty. Something quieter, more observant.

She approaches him without hesitation.

The nobles part for her, though they try to make it look graceful. She stops a few steps away from him. Her eyes move over him slowly—not in a lewd way, but assessing, as if she is cataloguing every mark of humiliation he carries.

Aelius does not bow. He meets her gaze, chin tilted in a challenge he doesn’t speak aloud.

Her lips curl the faintest bit.

Then she turns to the Emperor.

“Emperor,” she says warmly, “you honor me with such a welcome. And yet… I must ask about him.” She gestures lightly toward Aelius. “Is he yours?”

The Emperor laughs. “A pet for my court, nothing more.”

“Then gift him to me.” Her voice is honeyed, but there is steel beneath it. “A symbol of trust and good will between our empires. Let us show the world we intend to move forward together.”

The Emperor stiffens.

Gasps echo around the hall.

Aelius’s heart thumps once, hard.

“He is… quite valuable,” the Emperor begins, clearly reluctant.

“All the better as a gift,” she counters, still smiling, still impossibly composed.

The Emperor hesitates—but too many eyes are watching, and refusing would insult her publicly. He swallows his pride and gives a small, tight nod.

“Very well. He is yours.”

Aelius feels the room turn colder, dozens of stares digging into him—anger, jealousy, shock. None of it matters. The Empress only inclines her head in gratitude, then glances at Aelius again with that same unreadable curiosity.

“Have him transported to my palace at first light,” she says.

The next morning, he expects chains, handlers, guards barking orders. Instead, he is escorted politely. His belongings—few as they are—are handled with gloved care.

When he arrives at her palace, he is stunned.

They take him not to servant quarters, not to a display chamber, but to a private room. A noble room. A real bed, not a cushioned platform for decoration. Soft linens. Carved wood. Sunlight streaming through a balcony overlooking gardens.

He stands in the center of it, uncertain. Confused. Suspicious.

Pets do not get rooms.

Pets do not get privacy.