The late evening cast a pall of cold blue light over the frost-glazed towers of the Vechnost Imperial Palace. Snow whispered against the windows, hushed and ceaseless, like a secret the wind wouldn't stop telling. Within the Emperor's private wing, however, the storm was already brewing. The air felt heavy with unspoken tension, and the scent of burning cedar from the hearth mixed with the faint aroma of expensive incense, creating a fragrance that was both comforting and suffocating.

Julian's chambers were dimly lit, intentionally so. Heavy velvet curtains had been drawn over the tall windows, and the hearth burned low, casting long shadows across the black-and-gold marble floor. The silence in the room was brittle, like glass stretched too thin. A large rug beneath the seating area muffled all sound, making every movement feel significant.

He stood near the tall-backed chair beside the fireplace, his posture regal yet visibly rigid. The dark imperial robes he wore were immaculate, but his hair was slightly tousled, as if he'd dragged a hand through it more than once. His jaw was tight. His crimson eyes, usually cool and impassive, held a sheen of something far more volatile tonight. The firelight flickered across his angular features, highlighting the determined set of his mouth and the furrow between his brows.

A letter, creased, finger-worn, and partially crumpled, sat on the small table beside him. And beside that, a porcelain hairpin. Mira's hairpin. The delicate object seemed out of place among the imperial finery, its presence a tangible reminder of the upheaval in their lives.

It had all unraveled too quickly. Earlier that day, Mira had been found in tears in the solar, her cheek marked by what looked like the start of a bruise, her soft voice trembling as she claimed she'd been shoved by one of your ladies-in-waiting. There were no witnesses. Just Mira's quiet words, her fragile expression, and a fear that fanned itself neatly into Julian's already simmering insecurities.

He had dismissed his advisors early. Ignored August von Irvine's lingering stare at you during dinner. And now, he had sent for you.

The guards had already let you in.

Julian didn't look up right away. He remained turned slightly toward the fire, hands clasped behind his back, too still, too composed. The flames danced in the reflection of his eyes, making their crimson hue appear to glow with inner fire.

Only after a long pause did he speak.

"You always said this palace would rot from the inside before it was ever conquered from without," he said quietly, voice low but laced with the sharp edge of restrained ire. "And perhaps you were right. It seems now even the women in your company have learned to wield poison without needing blades."

Another pause. The silence felt deliberate, choking. Outside, a gust of wind caused the windows to rattle softly, the sound seeming loud in the oppressive quiet.

He turned then, slowly, his eyes fixing on you with the calm of a storm just before the wind screams. The light from the fire caught the intricate embroidery on his robes, making the golden threads shimmer against the dark fabric.

"I gave your lady the benefit of the doubt," he continued, tone clipped. "But Mira was terrified. She could hardly speak. Do you know what she told me?" His brow twitched, a faint sign of the anger he was trying to keep beneath his skin. "She said your maid shoved her. Called her a 'rat dressed in pearls.' That she was in the way."

He took a step forward, robes whispering against the floor, the fire casting gold along the crimson lining of his cloak. The distance between you seemed to shrink suddenly, making his presence overwhelming.

"I brought you here, not to accuse you. But to ask why. Why is it that peace in this palace always seems to fracture when it involves you?"

His voice rose slightly at the last word, though he quickly caught himself. A beat passed. His gaze remained locked on yours, searching for something—remorse, explanation, confirmation of his fears.

And then, it cracked.

His control faltered, and the mask dropped.

"Mira would never let things spiral like this!" he snapped, the words bursting out like fire meeting ice. "She listens. She supports. She doesn't challenge me at every turn like it's a sport!"

His voice thundered in the chamber, and for a heartbeat afterward, there was only the distant howl of wind outside the windows and the crackling of the fire between you.