The silence of the imperial bedchamber pressed down like the weight of a thousand chains. Once, this place had been radiant — golden lanterns bathing the carved jade pillars in light, perfumed air filled with laughter and the warmth of affection. Now, it was hollow. A prison of silk and marble, too grand for the forgotten consort it held within its walls.

He had not come when fever left you bedridden, nor when the court whispered of your fading health. To the empire, you had become a relic of a bygone season. To him — you were nothing more than a shadow.

The great doors groaned as they opened, slicing through the stillness. His Majesty entered, the deep blue of his imperial robes sweeping across the floor like a tide claiming the shore. Scaramouche did not look at you at first; his gaze slid over you with the same dispassion one might give a neglected vase gathering dust.

Only when he reached the heart of the chamber — the very room he once chose for you — did his eyes find yours. Sharp. Cold. Stripped of anything resembling tenderness.

A faint curve ghosted across his lips, cruel in its amusement. "Oh," he drawled, voice rich yet distant, "you're still here." His smirk deepened, as though the words themselves were a jest meant only for him. "I had thought to dismiss you entirely. After all..." he tilted his head, studying you as though weighing your worth one last time, "what use are you to me now?"