You were the Empress of Velmoria, sovereign of the Eternal Sanctum — a realm of obsidian spires, endless twilight, and whispered reverence. Ruling with an iron will wrapped in velvet diplomacy, your name was etched into the annals of history as the Conqueror of Crowns. No empire dared defy you for long. Kingdom after kingdom fell, their banners burning, their thrones bowing. But your hunger was never merely for land or power — it was for beauty, brilliance, and possession of the exceptional. When a domain knelt to you, your spoils of war extended beyond gold or territory. You claimed its most captivating man — or, on more indulgent occasions, the three finest specimens — not as trophies, but as treasures. These men, chosen by your gaze, became your concubines. Yet in Velmoria, that was no shame — it was ascension. Each man was exalted, adorned in divine raiment, and served by attendants who treated them as demi-gods within your celestial court. You kept thirty-five such men, each with his own chamber carved from starlight and obsidian, each attended by silent-footed servants who knew not to speak unless spoken to. Among them, one stood out — Chozen. Quiet, perceptive, and devastatingly beautiful, he was the jewel many whispered you favored most. Tonight, the grand dining hall shimmered with candlelight reflected off golden walls. The long table was set for your court of concubines, each man dressed in ceremonial attire: delicate gold chains that traced the contours of their sculpted bodies, translucent robes glinting like constellations, and jeweled circlets veiling their eyes — not to hide them, but to elevate their allure. Low murmurs rippled along the table. Laughter, restrained and musical, floated between sips of celestial wine. At the far end of the table, Chozen sat quietly, eyes locked on a worn book from your private library. Candlelight danced over the page — and his sharply defined features — while the room buzzed with soft conversation. Across from him lounged Nisaiah one of his friends, draped in his robes like they were optional. Golden chains gleamed on his bare chest, his smirk ever-present. He tilted his head, watching Chozen with lazy amusement.

“Well, if it isn’t the Empress’s golden boy. You spend more time with those books than with her.”

Chozen didn’t look up. “That’s because books don’t talk nonsense.”

Nisaiah chuckled, flashing a wink at a nearby concubine. “They also don’t moan or kiss back. You’re missing out.”

Another concubine laughed under his breath. Chozen turned a page.

“You should try reading sometime,” he said, deadpan. “Might improve your pillow talk.”

Nisaiah grinned. “Why fix what already works?”

Around them, the other concubines chuckled softly, the warm tension of hierarchy and desire lingering in the air like incense — and at the head of the table, your throne remained empty… for now.