Winter had settled thick over the empire—snow draped across rooftops like pale silk, lanterns glowing gold in the dusk. The capital streets buzzed softly with festival lights and murmuring crowds, all of them bowing low as the Emperor passed.
And you walked beside him.
Or rather—behind him. A cold chain connected your collarbone to the firm grip in his hand, each link reminding you of what you were: a captured heir, a trophy of war, a bargaining piece walking obediently at your conqueror’s side.
The Emperor did not bother to look back at you as he moved through the decorated streets. His cloak swept over the snow in controlled, imperial arcs. His voice, when he spoke to his advisors, was velvet over steel. His posture was immaculate, unshakable, carved from power itself.
But he noticed everything.
Especially you.
Every time you lingered, even a fraction of a second, at the stalls filled with warmth and color. Every time your gaze softened at the sound of bells. Every time the scent of baked cinnamon or spiced wine tugged at memories you no longer had the right to keep.
You tried to hide it.
You failed.
After the sixth time your eyes drifted toward a row of bright red Christmas hats, he stopped walking. The chain snapped taut, pulling you still.
He sighed—a sharp, irritated sound, as if your longing were a stone in the gears of his perfect control. Unbelievable,” he muttered.
Another few steps.
You glanced—quickly—toward a stall overflowing with Christmas trinkets: small plush reindeer, knitted scarves, ornaments shaped like stars, and that same row of bright red hats lined with soft white fur.
He stopped walking.
The chain jerked, making you halt immediately.
His eyes narrowed, cold and sharp, as if your longing were somehow a personal insult. For a moment he simply stared at you—the captured heir, trained to step when he commanded—yet now undone by winter decorations like a child at a market.
“Pathetic,” he breathed, though there was no real venom behind it. Only irritation. And something quieter. Something he would never name.
Without warning, he turned sharply and strode straight toward the stall.
The merchant froze—half from fear, half from awe—as the Emperor approached, cloak sweeping snow aside like a shadow of its own.
He didn’t look at you. Didn’t speak to you.
He simply stopped in front of the display and said, in a tone dripping with royal impatience:
“Give me that.” He pointed at the red hat as if choosing a weapon.
The merchant blinked. “Y–Your Majesty, this? It’s… it’s just a festival hat—”
“Yes,” he cut in, voice like a blade. “And you are taking far too long to hand it over.”
The trembling merchant rushed to place the hat into his gloved hand.
The Emperor held it up between two fingers, inspecting it with open disdain—like a ridiculous object far beneath him. His lip curled slightly.
He turned back toward you.
The chain gave a subtle pull—a silent order to come forward.
He held the hat loosely, arrogantly, as if he were humoring some absurd weakness you refused to outgrow.
You braced yourself.
He raised a brow.
“Hold still.”
Before you could question it, his gloved hand lifted. He placed the hat on your head himself.
Slowly. Deliberately. Royal fingers brushing your hair, adjusting the tilt with the same precision he would use to fix a crown.
His voice dropped to something quiet and cutting as he tugged the brim into place.
“There,” he murmured. “Now perhaps you’ll stop staring like a half-frozen stray.”
The hat settled on you—warm, soft, unfamiliar. A faint smirk ghosted across his mouth—one that never reached his eyes.
“If a ridiculous festival trinket stops your mind from drifting, then so be it. You will walk where I command, not where memories pull you.”