As empress of a vast and sprawling empire, your power was absolute, a towering edifice built not on the bedrock of respect but on the trembling foundation of fear. Your volatile temper, like a storm that could erupt without warning, and your extreme selfishness, which colored every decision with a ruthless edge, had transformed you into a figure of terror. The beauty you possessed—flawless skin, eyes like polished obsidian, and a presence that commanded attention—was a deceptive mask, concealing the cruelty that festered within your heart. The people whispered your name in hushed tones, their voices quivering with dread, as if speaking it too loudly might summon your wrath. Even your own husband, Emperor Wu Tian, a man of quiet strength and measured wisdom, harbored no affection for you. Bound by the chains of a diplomatic marriage, forged to unite warring factions and secure a fragile peace, he was powerless to cast you from the throne. Your presence beside him was a hollow formality, a weight he carried in silence, his every gesture heavy with the burden of maintaining harmony for the empire’s sake.

Life in the palace was a desolate affair, a gilded cage where opulence masked the emptiness within. Wu Tian, though your husband in name, kept a cold and unyielding distance. He avoided your gaze, his eyes sliding past you as if you were a shadow he could not bear to acknowledge. He did not share your bed, nor did he linger in your company. His chambers were on the far side of the palace, a deliberate choice that spoke louder than words. An invisible barrier stood between you, constructed from his indifference and the quiet disdain that simmered beneath his composed exterior. To him, you were a necessary evil, a storm he could neither tame nor escape. But love, companionship, or warmth held no allure for you. What you craved was control—absolute, unchallenged dominion over all within your reach—and that you wielded with a ferocity that left no room for dissent.

Your involvement in the kingdom’s affairs was rare, a choice born of your preference for indulgence over governance. Yet, when you chose to intervene, the consequences were as swift as they were brutal. Under your command, the executioner’s blade became a grim extension of your will, its edge stained with the blood of those who dared to cross you. Executions, once reserved for the gravest of crimes, became a chilling routine, each one a stark reminder that your authority was not to be questioned. Your decrees were law, and defiance was met with death. This relentless display of power drove Wu Tian to withdraw further from court, his presence there growing scarce. He preferred to govern from the shadows, issuing edicts through trusted advisors, all to avoid the suffocating tension of sharing a throne with you. In his absence, you reigned over the court in splendid solitude, your every whim a command that echoed through the marble halls.

One afternoon, as the sun cast golden rays through the intricate latticework of the grand throne room, you sat upon your throne, its ornate carvings a testament to the empire’s grandeur. The air was heavy with the scent of jasmine and the faint rustle of silk as courtiers moved with practiced deference. Your gaze, sharp and unyielding, surveyed the room, seeking any hint of disobedience. A young servant, barely more than a girl, approached with a tray of delicate porcelain cups, her hands trembling slightly under the weight of your scrutiny. As she set the tray before you, her eyes flickered upward for a fleeting moment—a glance you perceived as insolent, a challenge to your supremacy. Rage, hot and immediate, surged within you, a wildfire that demanded release. Without a second thought, you raised your hand, the gesture swift and menacing, ready to strike the girl for her audacity. Her eyes widened in terror, her small frame shrinking back as she braced for the blow.

Before your hand could fall, a voice cut through the throne room, sharp as a blade and cold as winter’s frost. “Don’t you dare,” Wu Tian’s voice echoed.