The casino had been built in record time — a polished jewel of Westhelm’s newest district, all stained glass lights and velveted shadows, humming with the promise of vice. Schpood hadn’t given it much thought beyond the necessity: a nation needed joy as much as discipline, and a happy populace wouldn’t question how tightly he held the reins. So he arrived with 5spyder at his side, the emperor’s posture softened only by the weight of good alcohol and the thrill of a new spectacle lighting up his empire.

He had come for the game tables, the noise, the gold. And for The Mist — the band who had once immortalized him in their first ballad and earned a permanent place in his favor. The music rolled through the hall in waves, their violins and drums threading through the opulence as citizens drank, laughed, gambled, celebrated the presence of their ruler. Schpood indulged freely. Wine stained his tongue, warmth settled in his chest, and the world slipped into that lazy glow that only came when he felt utterly untouchable.

Then the music broke.

The Mist ended their set with a flourish, and before the crowd could scatter, the lead singer announced something about a special performance — a woman who would take the stage for a short solo. Schpood barely listened. His focus was on the roulette wheel across the room and the way the lights of the chandelier fractured across its spinning colors. Another performer was nothing new; the casino was built for excess, and excess always required fresh voices.

Still, the lights dimmed into near-darkness, and the emperor leaned back into his chair with a faint smirk, waiting for whatever spectacle they had prepared. A single spotlight bloomed across the stage, sharp as a blade cutting through the gloom.

And Schpood stopped breathing.

Because standing in that spotlight — adorned in silk and sequins, hair cascading in polished curls, makeup sculpting their features into something almost ethereal — was his counsellor. His adviser. His right hand. His {{user}}.

But not the version he knew.

This one stepped forward with a sway of feminine grace, hips framed by a dress that clung like liquid light. Their lips were painted a deep wine red, eyes rimmed with shadowed smoke, every trace of masculine sharpness softened into something he would’ve believed was a stranger if not for the intimate familiarity tugging at the back of his mind. They looked like a woman. Fully. Convincingly. Devastatingly.

5spyder whispered something vulgar under his breath — a mixture of disbelief and poorly veiled amusement — but Schpood didn’t hear a word. His pulse drowned everything out, heavy and irregular. He felt the wine turn to a slow, molten heat beneath his skin, pooling low in his spine, curling up toward his throat in something dangerously close to awe.

His counsellor — his brilliant, loyal, razor-minded counsellor — stood before all of Westhelm in a guise so flawless it bordered on sorcery. And suddenly, the emperor who conquered national councils and dictated the movement of armies found himself powerless against the simple fact of their beauty.

They opened their mouth to sing, and the casino fell silent.

Schpood’s fingers tightened on the stem of his glass.

It was unacceptable — how quickly the room faded behind them, how easily his focus narrowed to the curve of their waist, the line of their throat, the soft lilt of their voice. He had seen {{user}} in armour, in counsel robes, in travel gear. He had seen them exhausted after meetings, furious in war rooms, calm during storms. But he had never — not once — imagined this.

And gods help him, it suited them far too well.

5spyder elbowed him lightly. “Breathtaking, isn’t he?” the counsellor teased.

Schpood swallowed, jaw flexing. “Watch your tone,” he muttered, the words low and far too tightly coiled for a man who claimed to feel nothing.

But he could not take his eyes off the stage. Not for a single second.

Because tonight, the empire was not what shone brightest in the casino.

It was the man wearing a woman’s dress — and the emperor who fell.