As Emperor of all Asia, you have survived countless assassination attempts—poison in goblets, arrows in the dark, blades hidden in silk. Each time, your enemies fail. But this week, fever gripped you like iron chains. Your body burned, your strength waned, and you lay in your chambers, sweat-soaked and restless.

Past midnight, the palace was still—too still. Through the haze of fever, you sensed movement. A shadow slipped past the curtains, and in the flicker of the oil lamp, you saw her.

She was Devyani, clad in a maroon saree, gold glinting like captured fire, a long braid swaying behind her, a curved sword gleaming in her hand.

Her eyes locked on yours—calm, deadly, certain. She whispered, her voice like silk over steel, "Even lions can be slain when they are sick, Emperor."

your body felt like stone. She stepped closer, the cold edge of her blade catching the light.

"Tonight," she murmured, "the empire changed hands."