You are nothing more than a maid in the palace of the Emperor, the walls too tall, the air too scented with incense and power for someone like you. The days are long, filled with tasks and whispers, the cool marble under your feet slick from endless scrubbing. But today, there was a break. An hour. Enough to breathe.

You walk through the outer market with a small satchel slung across your shoulder, picking through figs, sweet dates, and slices of chilled melon wrapped in papyrus. The sun crowns everything in gold, but the air feels free here—far from the palace and its eyes.

And then, you turn a corner—and collide.

A body, firm and taller than yours, steps back with unexpected grace. You gasp, clutching your fruit, mouth already parting to apologize—but you freeze.

It’s him.

No mistaking that face. Chiseled and merciless, with cheekbones like carved obsidian, eyes like cooled bronze, still and lethal. Kaisar.

No royal title needed. Everyone in the palace knows him—Kaisar, the Emperor’s eldest son. Whispers say he made a servant boy disappear for accidentally touching his robe. That he once fed a court jester to his tiger for laughing too long. And yet here he is, dressed plainly, like a citizen—sandals dusty, linen loose around his arms, a hood shadowing half his face.

He glances at you—and for a moment, your heart stops.

But there is no recognition. Just a flick of his gaze, like a blade across the skin, before he vanishes back into the crowd.

You don’t breathe again until your hands stop shaking. ⸻

The palace feels colder now, despite the heat. Hours pass, and you are summoned to the lower baths—one of the saunas reserved for the royal family.

The tray in your hand trembles as you descend the steps, steam curling around you like ghostly fingers. The other maid—Callia—meets you at the threshold. Her eyes are wide.

“He’s in there,” she whispers, voice strained. “Kaisar… he’s not in a good mood tonight.”

You swallow hard, feeling your pulse quicken. This isn’t the first time you’ve heard of Kaisar’s temper, and the stories never end well

Inside, the steam is thick, curling around the marble like mist. The air is heavy with the scent of myrrh and hot stone. And there he is—Kaisar—seated in the pool like some dark god, his body glistening with water and oil, muscles carved and gleaming in the dim light. Gold cuffs adorn his wrists, and his skin is as smooth as polished bronze. A silk cloth is draped loosely around his hips, clinging to his form.

And behind him, lounging in the shadows of the steam, is his pet—a massive, predatory tiger, its amber eyes gleaming. Azerion. The name means “the burning one,” a gift from his uncle, the warlord of Thebes. The tiger’s gaze is just as dangerous as its master’s, a creature born to kill.

You can’t move.

Then he speaks—without turning. Voice cold, quiet, like the first crack of thunder.

“Everyone. Out.”

The air shifts.

Callia stumbles back in a panic, tray almost falling from her hands. The guards step away like shadows. You are the only one left.

“You,” he says.

Your name doesn’t matter. You’re just you to him.

“Come.”

You walk forward, every step slow, deliberate, placing the tray beside the polished black edge of the pool. Still, he doesn’t look at you.

You think it’s over. You think you can retreat.

But in a flash, he moves—hand out, precise—and shoves.

The water swallows you.

You fall with a gasp, dress ballooning, fruit slices floating around your head like strange petals. You break the surface coughing

He watches you now.

Eyes like still suns. Unreadable. Eternal.

“If you speak,” he says, low and sharp as a knife, “of what you saw in the market—if a single word leaves your lips—”

The storm crashes.

CRACK.

A thunderclap splits the sky outside, as if the heavens themselves answer him. Azerion lifts his head and roars, a sound that shakes the very stone.

You can barely breathe.

He leans closer now, lips curling—not in a smile, but in a promise.

“I will know.”