The Emperor's obsession

The courtyard of the imperial palace buzzed with fanfare and energy, music rising and falling on the wind like a living entity. Scarlet and gold banners rippled against the waning afternoon light, while nobles in ornate robes filled the long rows of seats overlooking the central grounds. The scent of sandalwood and fresh blossoms filled the air as dancers from the far reaches of the empire performed under the decorated pavilion.

The ceremony began with pomp and reverence. The Lord of Nytheris stood tall on the main dais, his voice echoing through the open space. "Today's celebration will proceed in three folds," he announced. "The ceremonial sparring of royal heirs, the traditional dances of each kingdom's princess, and lastly, the lighting of the wish-lanterns under nightfall."

The first part commenced—a display of power and strength as young princes from various kingdoms took the stage, swords flashing and armor gleaming beneath the sun. But while the spectators were enthralled, Serenya could hardly pay attention. Her back ached from sitting so long in the constricting corset, but more than that, she could feel the weight of Zareth's gaze drilling into her.

Every now and then, she dared a glance his way, only to meet the same piercing eyes watching her like a predator tracking its prey.

It was maddening.

She fiddled with the edge of her sleeve, her mind not on the duel happening below, but rather on the ever-looming presence of the Emperor beside her.

The crowd erupted in cheers as the Prince of Lunavaal delivered the final blow to his opponent. Serenya took that moment to lean subtly toward Zareth.

"I would like to retire for the day, Your Imperial Majesty," she murmured, keeping her voice light, respectful.

Zareth turned to her slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as he tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.

"You don't look tired," he said smoothly, voice soaked in sarcasm. "All you've done is sit there like a very expensive, overly quiet statue."

Serenya closed her eyes briefly to mask the glare that almost escaped her expression. "Sitting can be tiring too, Your Majesty."

Just as his mouth opened to continue teasing her, she added in a quieter voice, "The dress is too tight. It's uncomfortable."

A crooked smile danced on Zareth's lips as he leaned in, his breath a warm, silken threat against her cheek. "Fine," he said at last. "You may leave."

She didn't hesitate. Rising quickly—before he could change his mind—she turned, her three ever-present attendants falling into step behind her.

But Zareth's cold gaze followed her, and the moment she disappeared from view, he motioned a guard over.

"Close the main gates," he ordered lazily, but with unmistakable finality. "Stop all servant procession from leaving the palace grounds. Tell them it's under my direct order."

The guard bowed and hurried off.

Let her think she could run. Let her have that little moment of hope.

As petty as it was, Zareth wasn't above letting her think she had control—only to remind her in the end that she didn't.

---

Serenya walked briskly, the sound of her soft slippers barely audible against the marbled floors. Flicking open her pocket watch, her fingers trembling slightly, she noted the time. Two hours left.

Her new chambers, located in a quieter and deeper wing of the palace, were eerily grand. The vast room welcomed her with soft golden lighting, its tapestries depicting Nytherian decorations. But she had no time to admire them.

"Please help me change," she said calmly to the servants as soon as she entered.

Without question, they assisted, loosening the tightly bound corset and helping her into a more comfortable silk robe. The moment they finished, she turned away and muttered with an edge of finality, "I am very tired and do not want to be disturbed."

The servants bowed and excused themselves, and Serenya listened carefully until the sound of the door clicking shut reached her ears.

She locked it.

Her heart thudded as she changed quickly into a Vayrana clothing—an old, soft ensemble that felt like freedom itself. She tied her veil around the lower half of her face, concealing her features. Moving to the bed, she fluffed and stacked the pillows beneath the blanket to create a vague shape.

Then she crossed to the window.

The sky outside was shifting—deep hues of orange bleeding into purple. She braided her hair swiftly into one long rope, tucking the end under the wrap of her dress, then flipped her pocket watch again. Thirty minutes.

Her stomach flipped when she opened the door to check—and found the three servants still stationed outside.

She shut the door slowly, quietly.

Why were they still there? Had they been told not to move?

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. Swallowing hard, she hurried back inside and moved to the balcony.

The drop was considerable. Not deadly, but not forgiving either.

Still, she had to try.

Serenya tore through her trunk, pulling out more dresses, sheets, and wraps. Tying them tightly together, she created a makeshift rope, reinforcing the ends with knots. Securing it to the balcony's ornate railing, she took a deep breath.

"This is madness," she whispered under her breath.

And yet, it was the only way.

She swung her legs over, grasped the fabric rope, and began her descent. Her palms burned, the knot biting into her hands, but she gritted her teeth and continued. The wind rushed past her ears, her braid swinging behind her.

Finally—finally—her feet touched the ground.

She staggered slightly but didn't fall. The adrenaline rushed through her, a heady mix of fear and exhilaration.

A shaky smile lit her face.

She did it.

Wasting no time, she picked up her pace and ran—faster than she ever had—toward the servant's quarters.

But what she didn't know was that someone had already closed the gates.

Back at the grand ceremonial courtyard, under the deepening violet sky, Queen Ishara's sharp eyes widened in disbelief. Her gaze locked onto the golden-haired figure striding toward the central stage, the light of the hanging lanterns gleaming against freshly undyed blonde locks. Her throat tightened.

"Elarynth," she hissed, rising from her seat abruptly, the layers of her emerald and sapphire gown rustling like silk leaves in a storm. Her jeweled fingers clenched tightly around her goblet before she set it down and moved through the crowd, her presence as commanding as ever.

She intercepted Elarynth just before the central dais. "Why did you undye your hair?" Queen Ishara asked, her voice sharp and clipped, laced with suppressed fury. "Do you realize what you've done?"

Elarynth tilted her head slightly, feigning innocence. Her expression was cool, her lips curled in the faintest hint of a smirk. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mother."

The Queen's hand shot out, grabbing her daughter's wrist in a grip firm enough to bruise. "You foolish girl, I'm trying to protect your sister, and you're serving yourself up like an offering to the wolves."

Before Queen Ishara could drag her away, a third presence stepped between them with practiced ease. It was Crown Prince Nevim of Dherani—Elarynth's betrothed. Dressed in deep blue robes threaded with silver, he bowed with regal charm. "Your Majesty. Princess Elarynth. A pleasure to see you again."

Queen Ishara's mouth flattened into a tight line as she bowed back, releasing her daughter's wrist.

Elarynth offered Nevim a perfect courtly smile. "My mother and I were just speaking of you. Since you've arrived, I suppose we should take a walk."

Her mother's disapproving glare burned into her back, but Elarynth ignored it. She slipped her hand into Nevim's offered arm, letting him lead her toward the path of trimmed hedges and polished stone.

"You look radiant tonight," Nevim murmured, pride swelling in his chest as heads turned in their direction.

Elarynth's eyes, however, remained distant. She hadn't undone the dye for him. Not for Nevim. Not for anyone—except one.

The Emperor.

With a deft move, she withdrew her hand from Nevim's arm. "There's a place I need to be," she said curtly.

Nevim blinked, caught off guard, but nodded politely and stepped aside.

Elarynth didn't waste time. Removing her veil, she walked straight toward the Emperor's platform with unshaken resolve. But before she could reach the stairs, two imperial guards stepped forward, their blades drawn in a flash, one positioned threateningly across her path.

The tension was immediate. Gasps whispered through the crowd. Even nobles craned their necks to see what was happening.

Zareth sat back on his throne, a picture of detached boredom, his fingers toying lazily with the stem of a goblet filled with spiced bloodwine. He turned his sharp gaze on the scene unfolding before him.

When he saw her—golden hair gleaming in the lamplight, chin lifted in arrogance—his lips twitched slightly. Not in approval, but in dry amusement.

"Let her through," he said, voice bored and biting. "She's the sister-in-law to be, is she not?"

The guards lowered their swords instantly.

Elarynth approached, her steps slow and calculated. Her back straight despite the still-healing wounds beneath her ceremonial robes. She was determined not to show an ounce of pain.

"I would like to perform a special Vayrana dance in honor of His Imperial Majesty," she said, bowing low, her voice velvety.

Zareth cocked a brow, swirling his goblet. "Dance?" he echoed, then scoffed. "Very well. If you must."

There was no praise, no welcome. Just amused tolerance. He watched her with the same interest one might give a mildly amusing play.

Elarynth stepped onto the stage, her fingers trembling briefly as the musicians picked up a sensual beat. She moved with grace, body flowing through practiced forms of Vayrana courtship dances—seductive, elegant, designed to entice.

But all Zareth saw was desperation.

"Foolish girl," he muttered, sipping from his goblet. "Still bleeding, yet dancing like a prize mare."

The crowd was stunned into silence. Some watched in awe, others in discomfort. King Rajan sat frozen, his face a storm of shame. He bowed low to the King of Dherani, whispering hurried apologies for his daughter's scandalous display.

Elarynth danced harder, ignoring the burn of her wounds. Her gaze kept drifting toward Zareth, seeking even a flicker of admiration.

But he never smiled. Not once.

Instead, his thoughts were elsewhere. His eyes kept flicking to the now-empty seat beside him.

Was his little dove flying now ? Or trying to fly?

---

Meanwhile, in the farthest corner of the palace, Serenya reached the hidden pillar where she and Zelda had planned their escape. The wind had picked up slightly, ruffling her cloak and braided hair.

Zelda emerged from behind the pillar, startled to find Serenya still in her formal gown, albeit with her veil in place.

"Your Highness—you didn't wear the dress I gave you?" she whispered urgently.

Serenya shook her head, her face dimly illuminated by the torchlight lining the path. " I'll explain later l . Let's leave. Now."

Without wasting another second, Zelda nodded and led her quickly toward the carriages where the Vayrana servants were being organized for departure. Most had already boarded, save for a few remaining to serve the royal family.

Serenya slipped into one of the larger carriages, keeping her veil secured. Inside, three rows of cushioned benches faced each other, each row holding four servants. The lantern hung from the ceiling flickered gently, casting shadows over the passengers.

The carriage jolted slightly as Zelda climbed in after her. The two sat side by side in tense silence.

A woman across from them stared at Serenya with a puzzled frown before recognition flared in her eyes. "Your Highness?" she whispered hesitantly.

Serenya lifted a finger to her lips.

The servant's eyes widened with understanding and she quickly bowed her head. The others caught on and mirrored her silence.

The carriage began to move.

The sound of wooden wheels and horse hooves filled the air. Serenya's heart pounded in her chest with every turn of the wheels. She didn't dare look out the window. She didn't dare speak.

But then—

The carriage lurched to a stop just as they reached the towering gates of the imperial palace.

Confused murmurs rippled through the servants. Then, the coachman's voice came from outside, muffled but clear:

"The Emperor has ordered that no carriages leave the palace until morning."

The doors creaked open.

"You all must step down."

Serenya's blood ran cold.