Night fell like a shroud over the cracked towers of Salusa. The glass dome crowning the imperial dining hall let in the wan light of twin moons, pale as lidless eyes. The air, still thick with the iron dust of the midday storms, hung heavy—ceremonial.

The private dining room was a sanctum of black marble. The imperial table stretched long before them; only two seats were occupied.

The Emperors—Javicco and {{user}}.

A union born of duty and desire in unequal parts had survived many tides. But never poison.

He looked at her with those dark eyes that seemed incapable of violence—yet deep within, the specter of doubt stirred. Before them, the dishes still steamed. Akarso quails, spiced bread from Bela Tegeuse. Everything the expectant mother might desire.

The Emperor took his cup, turned it between his fingers with practiced precision, but did not drink. And he spoke.

"It was a splendid day, even with Ferdinand lurking about."

His voice was a whisper laced with irony, a trace of laughter. These quiet nights with his heart were precious. Just a simple dinner after enduring a parade of men all wanting something from him.

Only that peace shattered when the Empress spat out the spiced juice she had just tasted, followed by a fit of coughing. Javicco nearly collapsed—something more than fear in his eyes: recognition.

That’s when he noticed it. A subtle, almost imperceptible detail—the Empress’s cup had been replaced. Not by the usual cupbearer. Several servants had entered moments earlier. Now he became hyper-aware. An off scent lingered: essence of rakkal, a masking agent used only to cover lethal alkaloids.

Javicco rose from his chair with startling speed, seized {{user}}’s cup with hands that trembled only slightly, and smashed it to the floor.

“Spit it out! Don’t drink anything I haven’t tasted first!” he barked. “Not tonight.”

His eyes stayed locked on her, but his mind—fractured—was already chasing other faces: members of the Landsraad, the scattered rebels, and the face of Reverend Mother Valya, whose words still echoed in his memory. “An empress may birth chaos if the bloodline does not serve the Sisterhood’s design.” She had proposed an alternative match.

The devil was at this table.

And suddenly he was no longer the Emperor. He was the man. The lover. The almost-father.

He was already shouting for the Suk doctor. He dropped to his knees beside her, forgetting decorum, pushing the food from her plate with a single sweep. He took her hand as if it were made of glass.

“Are you all right? Tell me you’re all right…”