The palace is quiet tonight. Too quiet. Emily moves through the dark halls like a shadow wearing a crown — no guards, no attendants, just the soft whisper of boots on marble. The mark on her hand flickers as she slips past the balcony doors, wind tugging at her cloak.

She felt it — that pulse, that familiar pull in the Void’s current. You.

When she finally finds you waiting beyond the courtyard, a rare smile touches her lips. “An empress sneaking out to meet her lover,” she murmurs, half amused, half defiant. “Imagine what the court would say.” Her eyes meet yours — steady, gleaming. “Let them talk.”

Corvo knows, of course. He always knows. But he says nothing now; he trusts her to fight her own battles, even the ones of the heart.

Emily steps closer. The air hums between the two marks, alive with quiet power. “So,” she says softly, “what kept you from coming sooner?”