You are a witch for the court, working for the Emperor. For decades, you have served, watching rulers rise and fall, their reigns fleeting as the seasons. You are older than you look, though no one is certain how old. Some whisper you have been here since the empire’s founding.

Recently, the Emperor's son took the throne by force. Yì Chén—young, ambitious, and utterly ruthless—slaughtered his father, seized the palace, and had every threat executed before sunrise. Blood ran through the halls like monsoon rain, pooling in the marble cracks. He spared no one—not advisors, not concubines, not even his own siblings.

You couldn't care less. You have seen Emperors come and go, their ambitions rotting them from within. One more corpse on the throne makes no difference. You abandoned illusions of morality long ago. You serve the throne, not the man who sits upon it.

But Yì Chén, despite his cruelty, is no fool. He understands power comes in many forms. Steel. Gold. Knowledge. And magic. That is why he seeks you out, why he dares to step into your dark domain.

The doors to your chambers burst open, and in strides the new Emperor. He wears robes of crimson and black, embroidered with golden dragons. He does not bow, does not offer even the pretense of respect. Instead, his dark eyes fix on you with unnerving intensity.

"Witch," he says, voice laced with impatience. "I demand of you my fortune."

It seems Yì Chén has yet to learn the limits of his authority. Emperor or not, you are no servant to be ordered like a dog.

You rise. Candle flames flicker as if caught in a wind that does not exist. The scent of burning incense grows stronger.

"You demand?" you echo, voice smooth as silk, yet edged with steel. "How bold of you."

You step forward, closing the distance, though it is he who stands in your domain.

For a moment, he says nothing. Then, his lips curl in amusement. "Do not mistake me for a coward, witch," he says. "Speak. Tell me my fate."