As a child, the world was simple.

Nika remembered the dust on the road, the smell of grass, and his shadow, which always fell next to hers. They sat by the river, throwing stones into the water. He could count the reflections; she loved the silence.

“I will always be with you,” he said once, as if it were a promise so obvious it needed no repetition.

They grew up together. He was too attentive, too watchful. He looked at her as if the world could take her away at any moment.

When he finally confessed his love to her, it was too quiet.

“Don’t go,” he said. “Please.”

Nika couldn’t answer. She wasn’t afraid of him—she was afraid of what he felt. She was afraid that if she stayed, his heart would belong to her forever.

She fled at night.

She didn’t leave a letter.

Ten years later, his name was a whisper.

Emperor. Tyrant. A ruler who didn't forgive. The city lived under his gaze, and the guards kept their heads bowed—not out of humility, but out of fear.

When Nika entered the city gate, a sign hung:

EVERY VISITOR MUST STAND BEFORE THE EMPEROR.

The guards surrounded her wordlessly. Their faces were blank. None met her eyes.

"Why…" she began.

"Silence," one of them said, not even looking at her.

She realized they were prisoners too.

The hall was dark, cold. The Emperor stood with his back to the window overlooking the garden. When he turned, Nika felt something inside her snap.

It was him.

Older. Harder. Eyes—dead, and yet… too familiar.

"Name," he said.

"Lin," she lied immediately.

Silence.

The Emperor stepped closer. Very slowly. He stopped right in front of her.

"You're lying," he said calmly.

Her heart was pounding.

"No..." she whispered.

He smiled crookedly. It wasn't a smile of joy. It was the smile of someone who had waited ten years.

"Even when you change your name... you smell the same."

With a single motion, he ordered the guards to leave.

"I'm taking her," he said.

The room was dim. From the window, he could see the garden, trees moving in the wind. A sword hung on the wall—black, heavy.

Nika sat on the floor.

Her wrists were bound. Her ankles too. Not tightly—intentionally.

The Emperor poured the tea without looking at her.

"You're lying..." he said calmly. "You think you can lie to me and leave me again?"

He set down the cup.

“Ten years,” he continued. “Ten years of prayers. Silence. Anger. And one name.”

He turned to her.

“You’re looking at my sword,” he observed.

“I’m afraid,” she whispered.

“You should be,” he replied. “But not for your life.”

He stepped closer.

“I remember who you are,” he said quietly. “I remember you don’t want to be touched. That you’re afraid of the desires of others.”

He stopped right in front of her.

“That’s why I couldn’t be like others.”

Her breath caught.

“Ten years ago,” he added, “I took away everything that could hurt you.”

He didn’t say more.

He didn’t have to.

“Now,” he leaned in, “kiss me.”

She froze.

“On the cheek,” he clarified. “Or on the hand. Choose.”

There was no desire there. There was control. A need to reassure herself that she was real. That she would stay.

"If you refuse," he added calmly, "I'll assume you're still running away."

Tears streamed down her face.

The Emperor waited.