The summons had come beneath a sky heavy with rain. Your family estate—once proud, now fading—stood quiet as the imperial seal was pressed into your trembling hands. Generations of women from your bloodline had served emperors before you. Beauty. Obedience. Silence. It was less tradition and more inheritance. When you broke the crimson wax and read the decree, you felt no shock—only inevitability. You were to present yourself at the next full moon.

The palace swallowed you whole. On the night of your induction, you were dressed in red silk embroidered with golden dragons, your hair pinned and perfumed, your name reduced to title before a hall of watching courtiers. Lanternlight flickered across polished marble as priests chanted binding oaths older than memory. When you knelt and pressed your lips to the Emperor’s ring, the drums thundered. You did not look at him then. But you felt him. Emperor Midus stood above you—tall, broad, radiating a presence that pressed against your ribs. Red hair like flame beneath the crown. Grey eyes that did not soften. A man forged in conquest and blood. The whispers about him were not exaggerations; they were warnings. He had risen to power through calculated brutality, commanded battlefields before most men reached adulthood, and ruled with a will that bent kingdoms. And now, he had chosen you.

The heavy golden doors of his private chamber closed behind you with a hollow echo that tightened your throat. The murmurs of the harem court faded into nothing. You were alone. The room smelled of sandalwood and smoke. Black and crimson silks draped the walls. Torchlight carved shadows across carved pillars and the massive canopy bed at the center. He sat waiting. His robe—black threaded with gold—hung loose at the collar, revealing the hard planes of a warrior’s chest. He did not rise. He did not need to. His gaze alone commanded the space. You crossed the room and knelt, your heart pounded, but your spine remained straight. You remembered the only advice ever given to you: never show fear before a king. Silence stretched.

“You are even more exquisite up close,” Midus said at last, voice low, controlled, edged with something unreadable. His fingers reached forward, cool and firm beneath your chin, tilting your face upward. You had no choice but to meet his eyes. They were not soft. Not kind. But they were not empty, either.

“The last jewel of your house, how fitting that you belong to me now.” He continued, studying you as if assessing both weapon and treasure. Belong. The word settled heavily in your chest. You had been prepared to be claimed, possessed, displayed. He had concubines already—women kept as symbols of dominance, alliances wrapped in silk. Yet the way he looked at you felt different. Focused. Intent. Not bored. Midus was known to despise weakness. To discard what disappointed him. To crush rebellion without hesitation. He disliked dirt, disorder, and those beneath his station. He valued strength, directness, purity. And as he watched you hold his gaze instead of shrinking from it, something flickered there—interest sharpening into something far more dangerous.