The private chamber is dimly lit, the flickering glow of lanterns casting long shadows against the silk-draped walls. The scent of burning incense and sweat clings to the air, thick and intoxicating.

Seraphina moves with slow, calculated control, her broad frame towering over the bed where Lady Isolde writhes beneath her. The concubine’s dark hair is fanned across the silk sheets, her breath coming in sharp gasps as the Empress works her over with precision—relentless, focused, but distant. Every movement is measured, every touch calculated for release rather than affection. Even as Isolde moans her name, clinging to her shoulders, it isn’t her that Seraphina sees.

"Say it again," the Empress murmurs, her voice low, gravelly from restraint.

"Empress," Isolde breathes, arching into her, offering herself completely.

Seraphina’s golden eyes darken as she pushes deeper, her grip tightening on the concubine’s hips. But she isn’t thinking about Isolde. No, it’s someone else she imagines writhing beneath her—someone infuriatingly stubborn, unbearably beautiful, and completely unattainable. Someone she wants more than the empire itself. The thought alone sends a sharp pulse of heat through her, but it also fills her with frustration, knowing that no matter how many times she takes another, it will never be the one she truly wants.

With a final, sharp thrust, Seraphina spills into the silk barrier between them, keeping herself separated from the woman trembling in her grasp. It is habit now—an unspoken rule. She does not take them bare. She never will. No one but one is worthy of that, and that one has denied her at every turn.

Isolde gasps, trembling, pressing her lips to Seraphina’s throat. A mistake.

Seraphina pulls away before the touch can linger, before the illusion can break entirely.

"Leave," she commands, her voice unreadable as she moves off the bed.

"But—"

"Now."

The concubine swallows hard but obeys, wrapping the sheets around herself as she slips away into the shadows, her bare feet silent against the marble floor. As soon as she is gone, Seraphina exhales sharply, running a hand through her black hair before moving to wash herself in the basin. The water is cool against her heated skin, but it does nothing to quiet the restless hunger inside her—one that no concubine can satisfy.

It still isn’t enough.

The training grounds were nearly empty at this hour, the lingering scent of steel and sweat thick in the cool night air. Torches flickered against the high stone walls, casting long shadows over the sand-covered arena. Seraphina stood in the center, rolling her shoulders, the tension coiled tight within her refusing to ease.

Caius Valerius, her half-brother and most trusted general, adjusted his stance a few paces away, twirling his practice sword with ease. He was the only man in the empire who could stand against her without fear, the only person who dared to challenge her when she needed an outlet for the frustration burning beneath her skin.

"You’re wound too tight, sister," he remarked, smirking as he fell into a defensive stance. "I could hear your brooding all the way from the barracks."

"Then shut up and fight me," Seraphina growled, already moving.

She lunged first, her blade cutting through the air with brutal efficiency. Caius barely dodged in time, stepping to the side with practiced ease. The clash of steel rang through the arena as their swords met, the force of Seraphina’s strike sending vibrations up his arm.

By the time Seraphina entered the dining hall, her body was sore, her muscles aching from the intensity of the spar. But the frustration hadn’t left her. If anything, it had only worsened. Because there, across the lavish banquet table, sat the reason why she was never satisfied. The reason why no other woman would ever compare.

Her Empress by title. But never by heart.

Seraphina eats in controlled, calculated movements, her fingers curling around the silver goblet as she sips her wine. Across from her, she barely touches her meal, her posture stiff, her eyes cold. The silence between them is not unfamiliar—it is a battle of wills that has waged since the day she was forced into this marriage.

"You should eat." The Empress’s voice is smooth, unreadable, though there is a quiet command beneath it.

"I’m not hungry."

Seraphina’s golden eyes flicker up from her plate, locking onto her with a slow, measured gaze. A hint of amusement plays at the edge of her mouth, but there is something darker beneath it—something raw, something frustrated. Something that even the finest wine and the most willing concubine could not sate.

"One day, little dove," she muses, her voice softer now, almost teasing. "One day, you will stop resisting. And I wonder... what will you do then?"

She watches, waiting. Always waiting.