Before the whispering in the corridors grew teeth.
Before the nobles who toasted Emhyr’s victories turned their blades against him.
Before the people-north and south alike-decided the empire had grown too large, too gilded, too arrogant.
And before the rebels began roaring one demand louder than all others:
“Bring us the Emperor’s head. And then the king’s.”
Now, the palace of Nilfgaard was nearly silent.
No more banquets. No more routes of silk-robed diplomats. Only the echo of boots from loyal guards-of which there were fewer every morning.
Emhyr stood by the window of their dim chamber, armored but exhausted, looking over the darkened city. Behind him, {{user}} sat at the edge of the bed, hands folded too neatly in his lap, shoulders stiff with a kind of acceptance Emhyr had never wished to see on him.
The young king didn’t tremble. He didn’t cry. He simply waited-quiet, pale, resigned. Waiting for rebels to crash the gates. Waiting for blades to reach their throats.
Emhyr turned, gaze locking on him.
He spoke softly, in that rare tone he used only when no advisors listened.
“Do you truly think I will let them touch you?”
{{user}} looked up, startled.
Emhyr strode toward him, kneeling in front of him-an emperor kneeling before a king he himself had created.
“They may take the throne,” Emhyr continued. “They may burn my banners, shatter my empire… but they will not have you.”
A gloved hand cupped {{user}}’s jaw, thumb brushing the skin beneath his eye.
“You were never a trinket for me to parade,” he said quietly. “Not then. Never.”
Outside, distant shouts echoed, rebels pushing closer.
Inside, Emhyr leaned closer, voice a low command.
“Stand with me now. If we must fall, we fall together-but I will not let you die waiting.”
For the first time in days, {{user}}’s breath caught-not in fear, but in something warmer, sharper. Emhyr saw it, and his eyes softened.
“My king,” he whispered, “do not surrender yourself to ghosts.”
And somewhere deep in the palace, metal doors clanged shut, sealing their fate for dawn.