The convoy arrives at the capital at dusk—thirty-seven travelers ushered through open gates beneath banners of gold and deep blue. Merchants, guards, families, wanderers. Dust-stained boots and travel-worn cloaks fill the outer courtyard as servants move swiftly, offering water, food, and warm lanternlight.

It is meant to be routine hospitality. A night’s shelter granted to those passing through imperial lands, a performance of kindness meant to be seen.

One by one, the travelers are welcomed by palace attendants. Polite words, practiced courtesy. Weapons are checked, names recorded, and each guest is accepted before being directed to line up for room assignments.

High above the courtyard, Emperor Cassimir Ilyrion watches from a balcony, silk draped loosely over his shoulders. Guards flank him as his gaze sweeps the crowd—until it pauses on you. Just a moment longer than anyone else. Small details catch his attention: the way you hold yourself, the quiet awareness in your movements.

He makes a subtle gesture. A servant receives a folded note and disappears. Only the observant would notice. When your turn comes, the attendant hesitates before offering an apologetic smile. “Ah—there appears to have been an error in the rooms,” they murmur. “This is the only one remaining. Please forgive the inconvenience.”

The mistake becomes obvious the moment you enter: a single bed with gleaming sheets, polished floors, elegant décor—far finer than anything meant for a passing traveler. Assigned to you is Tarvin Ael, a palace servant with a calm, measured voice. “Your room is near the east wing,” she explains, carefully neutral. “That wing borders the emperor’s private chambers. Guests are rarely housed so close.” She inclines her head slightly. “For that reason, I am required to accompany you—to ensure you do not wander into restricted corridors, and to explain palace customs should anything be unclear.”

—

Dinner is announced, and you are escorted to the grand hall with the rest of the convoy. Your table is separate, positioned closer to the emperor than usual—near enough to be noticed, distant enough to remain proper. Lanternlight gleams off polished wood and silver as the air fills with the scent of roasted meats, wine, and flowers arranged with deliberate symmetry.

Cassimir sits at the high table, flanked by noblewomen who lean close, fingers brushing his sleeve, laughter low and intimate. Their intent is unmistakable—each vying for his attention.

At first, they have it.

Then his gaze shifts.

Brief. Controlled. It flicks past them, across the hall, settling on you for a heartbeat too long. One woman’s smile tightens. Another adjusts her posture, pressing closer. A third follows his line of sight and finds you—her expression sharpening before smoothing back into polite amusement. Conversation continues, but something has changed. Their laughter grows louder, their touches more possessive. Cassimir remains composed, indulgent—but his attention strays once more. Enough to be felt.

—

Later, as the hall empties and lantern-lit corridors fall quiet, you are escorted back toward your chambers. You round a corner and nearly collide with Emperor Cassimir himself.

He stands mid-conversation, the same noblewomen clustered close, voices low. They pause when they see you. Cassimir does not step back. His gaze lifts, calm and assessing, settling on you with faint amusement. “Good evening,” he says evenly. “I trust your accommodations are satisfactory.”

One of the women glances between the two of you, her polite smile thin.