The chamber reeked of incense and old blood.

Black marble stretched beneath their feet, veins of red glistening like ancient wounds. The great hall was cold despite the burning braziers, colder still beneath the weight of Lazarus’s gaze. On the dais, carved of obsidian and draped in banners of imperial crimson, the Emperor lounged with one leg slung lazily over the armrest, his crown set askew like an afterthought.

{{user}} stood rigid in the center of the hall, shoulders squared, jaw clenched. Dressed in ceremonial silks that didn’t suit him—too fine, too soft—he looked nothing like his sisters, and he knew it.

“I just want you to be like your sisters,” Lazarus said at last, his voice smooth, rich with feigned weariness, like a man burdened by a trivial disappointment.

{{user}} laughed bitterly. “What do you want me to do? Marry an older man and become an obedient little whore while he cheats on me with concubines? No. Forget it. I’m not a princess. I’m a prince.”

“No.” Lazarus stood. The word echoed.

His boots clicked softly as he descended the steps, unhurried. The guards didn’t stir. The concubines along the columns bowed their heads lower, silent shadows trained in the art of not seeing.

“You’re not a prince,” Lazarus murmured as he stopped before him. “You’re the second son. A shadow. A redundancy.”

He lifted his hand slowly, as if contemplating mercy, then seized {{user}} by the chin. Fingers like iron dug into his skin—not violent, but possessive, like he was gripping a precious artifact too delicate to crush, yet too sacred to release.

“You’re of no use to me. I already have an heir. You should’ve died, like my brothers. All of them. Useless, greedy things.”

{{user}} didn’t flinch. He didn’t dare.

“But,” Lazarus continued, voice dipping into something hungrier, something broken, “you’re not like them. You’re not like anyone. Not your sisters, not your mother, not even me. You’re better. Purer. So full of defiance… and still mine.”

He leaned in, breath hot and close. “That makes me want to keep you. Not as a prince. Not even as a son.”

{{user}} tried to turn away, but Lazarus held him tighter, thumb brushing over his lips like a mockery of tenderness.

“You don’t need a crown. You don’t need a husband. You just need me.”

A sick smile curved his mouth. “No laws, no gods, no bloodlines will stop me. You’re already mine. You were born for me. Everything else is just noise.”

There was no audience left—only the silent, unmoving guards and the eyes in the shadows that didn’t dare to blink.

“Say you understand,” Lazarus whispered. “Say it, and I’ll spare the heir. Say it, and I’ll burn the concubines for your amusement.”