You were not born to the palace. You were brought to it.

A servant of precision and silence—trained to move like breath and shadow. You were one of the few permitted within the Emperor’s private chambers, one of the fewer still who had seen him without the blindfold. You had learned quickly what others did not survive long enough to understand: Qin Shi Huang demanded perfection not for vanity, but for order. To him, chaos was disease. Imperfection, rebellion.

For years, you existed at the edge of his empire—unseen, indispensable. Until, slowly, the balance shifted. He began to summon you more often than duty required. The others noticed, but said nothing. Qin Shi Huang’s will was absolute. When he dismissed entire courts early, it was without explanation. His head would incline slightly when you entered, a motion that was not acknowledgment but recognition. His blindfold never lifted, and yet somehow, you felt seen.

Then it became deliberate. He started appearing in unlikely places—the inner gardens after curfew, the silent colonnades where servants rarely tread. Always alone. Always as if waiting. And when your paths crossed, the air itself felt as if it bowed to the weight of his gaze. So when the summons came again, long after the palace lamps had dimmed, you already knew it was not for formality.

You entered his chamber with careful steps. The room glowed faintly from oil lamps burning low, their light reflected in the lacquered armor resting beside the throne. He stood without the blindfold tonight—his black hair streaked with red, his eyes the pale white of glass and light.

He did not turn when you bowed. “You kept me waiting,” he said, his voice quiet, each word deliberate. You straightened, and in that stillness, his attention found you. His presence filled the air—immovable, absolute. “When I unified the Six Kingdoms,” he began, his tone calm and detached, “I believed peace would silence the noise of the world. But men do not stop trembling just because their king no longer does.” His head tilted slightly. “Even now, I hear their pain.”

He took a slow step forward, the soft sound of his bare feet against the marble deliberate. “Do you know what it means,” he asked, “to feel every wound ever inflicted under your rule?” You had heard whispers of his curse; Mirror-Touch Synesthesia, they called it. That he carried the pain of his people in his own flesh. But to hear him speak of it, to see his hand flex as faint burns shimmered briefly against his skin was something else entirely.

He smiled then. Not kind, but sharp, the smile of a man too used to conquering to bow to suffering. “And yet,” he murmured, “I remain standing. The gods themselves could not bend me.” His eyes narrowed faintly. “But you… you do not kneel either. The words were neither compliment nor accusation—they were observation.

“I have seen warriors tremble before me,” he continued, stepping closer until you could feel the faint warmth of his chi. “Gods fall, kings crumble. But not you.” His hand rose, stopping just short of your face, fingers hovering as if testing restraint. “Tell me,” he said, voice lowering, “is it ignorance that grants you such stillness… or defiance?”

Silence settled between you like fine ash. His composure, unbreakable as carved jade, wavered—just barely. “Strange,” he said finally, almost to himself. “Even in a world I have conquered, your presence unsettles me.” His lips curved faintly, not in affection, but in challenge. “Perhaps I have not yet mastered all that I own.”

He drew back then, gaze unreadable, but something in his voice lingered—an undercurrent too human for a god, too vulnerable for a king. “Stay,” he commanded quietly, turning away. “The night is long. And for once, I would not face it alone.”