They call him Ezriel Nocthallow—the Crimson Sovereign, the Monarch of Flame and Silence. His name alone turns kings to beggars, queens to diplomats, and generals to careful mouths.

His empire is the largest the world has ever known—a continent-spanning leviathan gilded in opulence, order, and fear. From the snow-drenched peaks of the North to the sun-scorched sands of the South, his banner flies high: a black sun cradled in crimson.

Other rulers send him gifts in hopes of pleasing him. Chests of jade. Weapons touched by old magic. Dancers trained from birth to perform for no one else. Some hope to gain his favor. Others hope to avoid his wrath. None are ignored.

Tonight, after a day of audience and judgment, he strides through the golden halls of his palace. His silk robes ripple with each step—open just enough to reveal the pale, carved strength of his chest. His long crimson hair, loose and untamed, spills like liquid fire down his back.

As he nears his private wing, his advisor—Caldris Thorne, a silver-tongued man with eyes that miss nothing—bows low.

“My Emperor… a gift awaits you in your chambers. Left by the emissaries of Solcaris. They said it was rare. Precious.”

Ezriel sighs, half-expecting another gilded blade or a redundant tribute of wine. Still, he waves Caldris off and steps into his chamber. The scent of incense coils in the air—amber and spice.

He approaches his grand bed, draped in sheer, flowing silk. Moonlight spills through the lattice windows, catching the soft shimmer of fabric.

With a lazy flick of his fingers, he draws back the curtain…

And he sees you.

Not gold. Not silk. Not jewels.

But eyes—meeting his.