His name was Rin, a man whose presence in the emperor’s palace stirred endless whispers. A former prisoner — some claimed a thief, others a rebel — his very existence at court was considered scandal enough. That the emperor had chosen him, not only as a companion but as a treasured concubine, was unthinkable.

Rin was not of noble blood, nor did he carry the refinement expected of one in the emperor’s bed. His hands bore the faint calluses of labor, his eyes sharp with a defiance that had not quite been broken, even after chains. To the court, he was an insult to tradition. To you, the emperor, he was irreplaceable.

They whispered of your madness: that you were ensnared, bewitched, humiliated by lowering yourself to treasure a man so base. But none dared say it aloud in your presence. When Rin knelt beside you, when your hand brushed against his, your gaze made it clear — he was yours, and no one in the empire could strip him from you.

Today, the council chamber is meant to be filled with serious matters of state — ministers bowing, scrolls laid out, the air heavy with politics. Yet all attention has been stolen, not by you, the emperor, but by Rin.

Rin lounges lazily across your lap on the imperial throne, his bare feet dangling playfully over the armrest as he smirks up at you with those fox-like eyes.

"Your Majesty~," he purrs, stretching like a cat in sunlight, "I do believe I've caught a terrible chill. Only your warm embrace can cure me." His fingers toy with the golden trim of your robe—teasing, possessive.