The Emperor's obsession

Zareth dragged Serenya down the golden-lit corridor of the eastern wing, his grip firm and unyielding on her delicate wrist. Sunlight poured through the towering stained-glass windows, casting fragmented hues of crimson and amber across the obsidian marble beneath their feet. The vibrant colors danced over Serenya's soft face, but she barely noticed. Her heart pounded with dread as her gaze fell on the towering doors ahead.

Her new room.

It was grand. Extravagant. Far more spacious and opulent than her previous one. But that wasn't what made her chest tighten in unease.

It was how dangerously close it was to the Emperor's own chamber.

Zareth could feel the storm of thoughts brewing in her pretty little head. He didn't need magic or mind-reading to know. The way her steps hesitated, the way her eyes darted from door to door, from corridor to corridor.

But what thrill was there in a hunt if the prey didn't believe it could flee?

He smirked.

"Oh, the ideas running through that tiny head of yours," Zareth muttered lazily, his voice silk laced with thorns. "But what's the joy of a chase, little dove, if there's no run?"

Serenya didn't respond. Her voice was lodged somewhere between her throat and heart. Her fingers clenched at her sides as Zareth finally stopped before the heavy doors carved with Nytherian serpents and thorned sun emblems.

With one effortless push, the doors creaked open.

The chamber was breathtaking.

Vaulted ceilings stretched high above, glimmering with golden leafwork. The bed stood at the center of the room, layered in silver silk and framed by obsidian posts shaped like spiraling thorns. Floor-length drapes of violet velvet hung from gilded rods over massive windows, and sunlight poured through, casting warmth across the polished black floor.

Her steps were reluctant as she entered. Everything gleamed. Everything screamed royalty. And everything stunk of him.

Zareth watched her, head tilted slightly as if amused by the way her wide eyes soaked in the room.

"This room," he said, turning his gaze toward the bed, "is what befits my woman."

His voice was a decree, not a compliment.

Behind them, servants filed in, carrying folded garments, perfume trays, and embroidered linens. Zareth didn't spare them a glance. His eyes were fixed on her like a predator indulging the illusion of freedom before the pounce.

"The ceremony begins in a few minutes," he muttered, his voice low and commanding. "Make sure you're ready and dressed in the attire I personally selected for you."

He stepped forward, took her hand before she could react, and brought it to his lips. The contact was brief but powerful—possessive, a silent reminder of dominance.

The shiver that followed crawled down her spine and rooted her in place.

Serenya's eyes widened. She snatched her hand back as if burned, her cheeks flaring hot. Zareth's lips curved.

"Still so bashful," he said with a scoff. "You'll learn. Eventually."

He turned on his heel, coat flowing behind him like a shadow, and exited without another word. The doors closed with a weighty thud, the sound echoing through the high chamber.

Her legs gave in seconds after.

She sat at the edge of the massive bed, her eyes scanning every inch of the luxurious prison she now inhabited. It didn't matter that the sheets were made of imported velvet or that the windows overlooked the imperial gardens. It didn't matter that the air smelled of rosewater and sandalwood.

She felt trapped.

When the servants had finally left—bowing and retreating with mechanical obedience—Serenya stood slowly and approached the balcony. The wind greeted her with gentle fingers, sweeping through her hair and bringing with it the distant hum of life beyond the palace.

This room was higher than her last. But oddly, the route to the servant quarters seemed shorter. From this height, the outer walls looked scalable. Perhaps, just perhaps, God was showing her mercy.

Her fingers curled around the balcony rail. If she timed it right—if she waited for nightfall and avoided detection—she could...

She turned back inside, heading straight for the dress now on her bed .

Zareth had seen it.

Her heart dropped.

Wearing it now would be foolish. Reckless.

She shoved the outfit deeper into the wardrobe and shut it firmly, jaw clenched.

A knock.

Her muscles tensed.

Three female servants entered, heads bowed, arms carefully holding a dress. Crimson. Structured. Nytherian.

Unlike the flowing silks of Vayrana, Nytherian dresses clung like armor. This one came with a corset as tight as breath, bangles for both wrists, and no veil to shield her from the world.

Serenya's throat dried.

Her fists clenched.

How would she ever escape now?

In another wing of the palace, the atmosphere was taut.

King Rajan stood near the window, his hands folded behind his back. The rays of the afternoon sun poured in, casting shadows across the floor. Beside him stood Prince Kael, eyes determined.

"I've already written a letter to the Council requesting their audience today," Kael informed. "If they agree, even if Princess Serenya cannot leave the palace, they will protect her."

King Rajan nodded, pride momentarily flashing in his weary eyes. The Crown Prince of Thamur was not one to bow before fear and he was glad he had given his youngest daughter to him .

"Father," Prince Aresh interjected, "how about I meet Serenya outside the palace instead?"

He hated the thought of his sister being left alone, especially with just a man.

"Okay, you can join them," Queen Ishara said quietly.

She too saw the danger. And the urgency.

The wind stirred the palace curtains, and the drums of fate began to beat louder.

—

In Elarynth's chamber, the air was heavy with the scent of incense and healing ointments. The curtains were drawn slightly open, letting filtered afternoon sunlight slip through the silken drapes and fall in soft patches across the polished marble floor. The once proud princess sat in front of her gilded mirror, her posture rigid but defiant, her bandaged shoulder clearly aching beneath her silk gown. Bruises still peeked beneath the edge of her collar, but she refused to acknowledge the pain.

Emma, her loyal lady-in-waiting, stood behind her with worry etched deep into her brow, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She met her mistress's gaze through the mirror, her voice trembling as she said, "Are you sure about this, Your Highness? Your wounds… they're not in any shape for you to even sit properly—"

Elarynth cut her off with a sharp glare that could melt stone. "You'll do as I say. I can't let that little village flower be the reason I miss the ceremony." Her tone was cold, slicing through the air like a blade.

A slow, almost predatory smile crept onto her lips as she held her reflection captive in her gaze. "Undye my hair, Emma."

Emma froze, her face blanching. "But… it was His Majesty's order that your hair remain black—"

The porcelain vial of hot medicinal salve flew through the air before Emma could finish her sentence, shattering against her cheek. She gasped, stumbling back, the hot liquid searing her skin.

"You always have an opinion, don't you?" Elarynth seethed, standing now despite the obvious strain it caused her. "Do as you're told, or I'll rip that clever tongue of yours out."

Emma dropped to her knees immediately, forehead brushing the floor, her voice breaking as she whispered, "Forgive me, Princess… I'll do it right away."

Her hands trembled as she reached for the box of ingredients, tears threatening to blur her vision as she carefully began mixing the solution to strip the dye. The pain on her face was unbearable, but she didn't dare utter a sound.

Elarynth's smile returned as she resumed her seat. Her fingers touched the gold comb on her vanity, running along its fine teeth.

Her mother had taught her never to back down.

Of course, her mother had meant it to build courage, not vanity. But Elarynth had learned her own version of strength: if she wanted something, she'd claim it—even if she had to destroy everything in her way.

Especially Serenya.

---

Outside, the courtyard had been transformed into a vision of grandeur. Crimson banners bearing the Emperor's insignia fluttered from towering columns. Golden lanterns dangled from trees and marble archways, casting dappled light as musicians played haunting melodies on Nytherian flutes and deep drums. The scent of incense, roasted meats, and blooming nightshade flowers mingled with the wind.

The ceremony was already underway, with dancers from each kingdom twirling to display their culture. Their movements were fluid and graceful, their painted faces glowing beneath the sun.

Serenya arrived quietly, her ladies-in-waiting trailing behind her, each of them dressed in complementary shades of soft rose and gold. Serenya's crimson dress hugged her too tightly, the boned corset making her movements stiff and measured. She felt every gaze fall upon her the moment her slippers touched the stone path.

A Nytherian guard stepped forward, bowing low. "Greetings, Your Highness. His Imperial Majesty has requested your presence beside him."

Her stomach twisted, her fists clenched at her sides. She nodded slowly, forcing a polite smile.

Each step toward the elevated dais where the Emperor sat felt like crossing a battlefield. Whispers surrounded her—voices of nobles and kings, some scoffing, others murmuring in disbelief. A human, sitting beside the Emperor? It was unheard of.

And yet, there it was: the smaller throne placed beside his, gilded yet clearly secondary. It was enough to declare intention without confirming anything official.

Zareth sat tall, draped in deep midnight robes embroidered with obsidian threads. A gold-etched crown circled his brow like a band of thorns. The second he saw her, his expression morphed into something twisted and triumphant.

"Sit, little dove," he muttered with a lazy smirk, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

Serenya forced herself not to glare at him, bowing politely instead before sitting. Her knees brushed the edge of her corset, her breathing tight.

How was she supposed to escape now? She was on full display, sitting beside the most dangerous man in Nytheris.

"You're looking beautiful," Zareth said casually, as if complimenting a caged pet.

She bit her tongue.

He leaned in slightly, eyes glinting. "You should try to see the brighter side of things, Serenya. I would make you my Empress—if only you'd accept me."

His tone had shifted. There was something genuine beneath the usual arrogance. But Serenya didn't let herself be fooled.

"I want freedom, Your Majesty," she whispered. "That's all I want. I want to return to my family."

Zareth chuckled, brushing his thumb against her hand on her lap.

"I'm too captured by you to give you that, Serenya. You see, the thing is…" He paused, his voice dipping with dangerous charm. "I like you. A lot."

She clenched her jaw. "My mother once told me that if you truly like something, you should be willing to let it go. If it comes back, it's meant to be yours. If not, then it never was."

Zareth let out a laugh that was more mocking than amused. "That's one of the dumbest things I've ever heard. Is that what you humans teach yourselves? How pathetic."

His voice was venom laced in silk.

He turned toward her fully, voice quiet but cutting. "You'll learn better with me. I say, if you want something, you take it. You chain it, you mark it, and you make it yours. That's how the world works, dove."

She stared at him, appalled.

He smirked again, clearly amused by her silence. The worst part was how confident he was—how deeply he believed in his twisted logic.

Her heart pounded in her chest. She didn't know whether to scream at him for insulting her, or cry over how impossible it now felt to leave.

And above all, she didn't know how to escape when the Emperor had made sure she was beside him—on a throne, yes, but one carved like a cage.