The day had wrung {{user}} dry.

From dawn to dusk he had been paraded through responsibility: drilling etiquette into his spine, Nilfgaardian history into his skull, obedience into his very breath. He had listened while men twice his age debated borders he did not truly command, nodded when spoken about rather than to, and smiled when Emhyr’s name alone ended arguments.

By the time the council finally dispersed, his head throbbed and his crown felt heavier than iron. So he escaped.

He slipped away to the rooms assigned to his personal attendants a title far grander than the truth. They were simply young people, chosen less for usefulness than for proximity to his age, meant to keep him smiling and visible. Somewhere along the way, they had become friends instead of ornaments.

Laughter came easily there. — It spilled into the corridors, then into the gardens, reckless and bright. Someone suggested fresh air, someone else dared someone to climb a low wall, and suddenly {{user}} was running again-running, like he had as a boy, robes hitched up, breath sharp with delight.

The sons of the royal blacksmith joined them, broad-shouldered, loud, unafraid to forget who {{user}} was supposed to be. Five young bodies scattered through the gardens like startled birds, trampling flowerbeds, tossing insults, stealing apples meant for display rather than eating.

For a precious while, {{user}} was not a king.

He was just a young man stretched out in the grass, warm stone beneath his back, laughter fading into contented silence. Someone hummed. Someone else complained about sore legs. The sky above Nilfgaard felt impossibly wide.

Then the air changed. A silence crept in-not earned, but imposed.

{{user}} felt it before he saw it. That familiar tightening in his chest. That instinct learned the hard way. He sat up.

At the top of the garden staircase stood Emhyr var Emreis. The Emperor’s presence devoured the space around him. Black and gold, posture immaculate, hands clasped behind his back. His expression revealed nothing-no anger, no amusement, only that cold, assessing calm that made seasoned generals stand straighter.

One by one, the others noticed. They scrambled to their feet, color draining from their faces.

Emhyr did not raise his voice. “You are dismissed,” he said simply.

No names. No explanation. They bowed hastily, murmured apologies, and fled as if the stone itself might swallow them. Within moments, the garden belonged to only two men.

{{user}} rose more slowly.

Grass clung to his clothes. His hair was mussed, cheeks flushed from laughter he had not yet had time to bury. For a heartbeat, he hated how young he must have looked.

Emhyr descended the steps at an unhurried pace, boots echoing against stone. He stopped a few feet away, gaze sweeping over {{user}}-the disarray, the loosened posture, the absence of a crown.

“So,” Emhyr said at last, voice low, even. “This is how a king spends his evenings.”

{{user}} straightened instinctively. “I finished my duties.”

“I am aware.” Emhyr’s eyes did not soften. “I approved the schedule.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy as velvet.

“You enjoy pretending,” Emhyr continued. “Running, laughing. Forgetting what you are.”

{{user}} swallowed. “I don’t forget.”

Emhyr’s brow lifted slightly. The smallest reaction but it was there. “No,” he said. “You remember. That is precisely why you run.”

He stepped closer, close enough that {{user}} could smell leather and ink and something sharper beneath. Emhyr reached out-not to touch, but to tilt {{user}}’s chin up with two fingers, forcing his gaze higher.

“I did not make you king so you could vanish into gardens like a bored noble child,” Emhyr said quietly. “I crowned you so the world would see what belongs to me. Enjoy your youth, I’m not stopping you, but remember when you are seen, you are mine to display. Do not make me come looking for you again.”

His thumb stilled beneath {{user}}’s jaw. He paused at the steps, glancing back once.

“Come,” he said. “You will catch cold.”