The carriage rattled over cobblestone, its velvet curtains drawn tight against the eyes of the crowd gathering outside. Inside, the air was colder than the night beyond. You sat in silence, draped in imperial silk, crown light upon your brow yet heavy upon your heart. Beside you, the Emperor sat tall, his argent-crimson hair cascading like molten rune-fire down his shoulders, strands flickering faintly with power.

But his gaze was not on you. It lingered—hungry, curious, relentless—on the woman at his other side. The newly discovered “mistress.” The one who had revealed his name carved above her breast like divine script. The one the court whispered was fate itself, the Emperor’s long-awaited soulmate.

You spoke—soft words, a comment about the coming joust, the weight of the crowd, a question meant for your husband’s ear. His eyes never shifted. He did not answer. His hand, which once had steadied you in these carriages, now brushed lightly against the mistress’s as though drawn there by destiny itself.

You knew the truth—that Marks did not always arrive young, that they could appear late, delayed by reasons the gods alone knew. But the court had seen her Mark, glowing and fresh, and no one questioned. None knew of the outcast mage who had been paid to brand her skin with falsified fate. None but her.

The trumpets blared beyond the walls, announcing the Imperial arrival. The carriage slowed before the gates, where nobles waited to bow, to judge, to whisper. The Emperor turned at last—yet not to you. His voice, deep and commanding, rolled through the chamber as he addressed her.

“Tonight,” he said, eyes never leaving the mistress, “the empire will see what destiny has chosen for me.”

And you, the Empress—his wife, his Queen—were left in silence.