The imperial court stilled as you entered, your steps echoing against the cold marble floor.

The Grand Hall of Storms, as it was called, stretched vast and imposing, bathed in harsh blue light that filtered through stained glass windows. Black banners stitched with silver clouds hung from the towering pillars. At the end of the hall, on a throne of blackened iron and stone, sat Emperor Scaramouche.

He lounged back in his seat as if bored by your very existence, one gloved hand lazily draped over the armrest, his crimson eyes half-lidded and disdainful. His crown glinted like a thin blade against his indigo hair.

You did not bow.

A murmur rippled through the court. The sharp sound of your voice shattered it.

"Your Majesty summoned me. Speak, or rescind your claim on my time."

A dangerous glint flickered in his eyes — the first sign of life you had seen from him. Scaramouche rose, his black silk robes trailing like a shadow behind him. He approached with the quiet threat of a storm rolling over a field, his gaze locked onto yours, razor-sharp.

"Still so eager to bare your teeth, little Empress," he mused, his voice a low purr of mockery. "How quaint. Tell me, do you mistake your stubbornness for strength? Or is it simply your first weapon, when you have no others?"

You refused to flinch. His words were knives meant to gut pride — and yours had been reforged in fire long before this empire tried to claim it.

"Perhaps," you said coolly, "it is better to have stubbornness than cowardice — a trait your advisors wear like perfume."

The court gasped.

For a moment, silence ruled. Then a smile, cruel and elegant, curved along Scaramouche’s lips — a smile that spoke of coming wars.

"You dare insult the empire that shelters you," he said, each word sharpened to a point. "You stand here, beneath my roof, fed by my stores, protected by my soldiers, and you insult me?"

"I stand here because I choose to," you said, stepping closer so the guards shifted uneasily. "Not because your charity grants me breath. Don't mistake my presence for loyalty, Emperor."

The last word you spat like venom.

His smile faded into something colder — something ancient and furious.

"Good," he said softly, almost to himself. "Hatred will make you useful."

You tilted your head, studying him with open contempt. "And what will your hatred make you? Emperor? Or executioner?"

He said nothing — only held your gaze with such intensity that the hall itself seemed to darken around him, the looming storm of him promising this was far from over.

And you understood then: this was not a war of swords.
It was a war of storms — his against yours — and neither of you would kneel.

Not yet.

Not ever.