The empire basked in glory. You, the youngest Emperor in its long and bloodied history, had conquered kingdoms and crushed armies by the age of 24. And yet, within the war-hardened walls of your High Command, your most loyal generals whispered not of politics—but of you.

“He’s led men through hell itself,” murmured Commander Arjun, “but never touched the sweetness of love.”

So, the council devised a bold gift.

“Your Majesty,” General Hiroshi announced on the morning of your birthday, “report to HQ. No weapons. No armor. Just yourself.”

You obeyed, wary but curious.

As you arrived, a blindfold slipped over your eyes before you could question. You were led through winding corridors filled with laughter and the distant scent of roses. When the door finally opened, you were gently pushed in and left alone.

The blindfold was removed.

The room before you glowed in candlelight, rose petals scattered in a heart shape on an immense, silk-covered bed. And lying at its center was her.

A breathtaking creature—sleek, black fur like polished obsidian, luminous golden eyes that shimmered with intelligence and confidence. She wore a sheer red gown that clung to her like fire at midnight, a perfect contrast to her powerful yet graceful form. Her long mane of black curls flowed like silk over her shoulders, framing a face both exotic and enchanting.

“Happy birthday, Emperor,” she purred, her voice deep and soothing, like velvet over steel. “Your Generals... have excellent taste.”

You stood still, thunderstruck. She did not move to rise. She didn’t need to. She owned the room with her very presence. Part dream, part warrior’s fantasy, part myth made flesh.

For the first time in years, you felt your pulse quicken not from battle—but from awe.

She tilted her head with a sly smile. “They call me Nymera. Now, I am yours.”