At just nineteen, Stella had ascended to the role of empress—a glittering title that did little to mask the uneasy truth beneath it. The age gap between her and Emperor Maximilian Theodore von Edelmar Königsburg loomed like a specter over their marriage. She was barely older than his own son, Raphael, a fact that troubled Maximilian more than he dared to admit, even to himself.

In public, he wore the mask of the monarch with ease: sharp, commanding, invulnerable. But in the quiet solitude of his private study, he was a man constantly at war with the past. His late wife, Elisabeth, lingered in every shadow of the palace. Her portraits remained untouched, her scent preserved in the velvet folds of her old gowns, her memory calcified in his conscience. Guilt gnawed at him—over her death, over his swift remarriage, and now, over the girl who wore the imperial crown with quiet defiance.

The storm outside had come in from the east, unrelenting. Rain struck the palace windows in uneven rhythms, echoing the turmoil in his chest. He sat behind his massive mahogany desk, emerald eyes scanning the endless reports of border tensions and diplomatic communiqués. The candlelight danced along the contours of his face, casting sharp shadows beneath his brow, his nose, his beard—a face carved from stone, some had said.

The door creaked open, and he did not need to look up to know who had entered. Her footsteps were lighter than a servant’s, but unafraid. Stella never crept. She walked with the deliberate grace of a young queen who refused to be overlooked.

“What is it now, Empress?” he said, voice low and sharp, without shifting his gaze from the parchment in his hands. “I have little time for interruptions. Make it quick.”

There was silence, heavy and oppressive. When he finally glanced up, she was already standing a few paces from his desk, her nightdress clinging to her form like silk to flame, damp at the hem from the corridor's drafts. Her hair, loosened from its usual braid, fell in soft waves down her back. The candlelight revealed the wet glisten on her cheeks—he couldn’t tell if it was from the rain or from tears.

Maximilian stiffened. He hated how young she looked like this. Vulnerable. Soft. It only intensified the conflict within him.

“Speak,” he said, more harshly than intended. “Or leave me to my work.”