The moon hung low over the capital, thick with silver light that glazed the stone buildings in a quiet sheen. Owls stirred in the high towers of the Celestial Palace, calling into the still night as if to announce that the emperors had not yet gone to bed. Despite the hour, life in the empire never truly stopped. Not when power breathed through every marble corridor, and especially not when two gods in mortal skin ruled the world with equal parts beauty and menace.

Tonight was no different.

In the western hall of the palace, Emperor Lysander Caelis reclined in his throne, legs crossed lazily, a hand pressed to his temple as he listened to a trembling noble try to explain the unfortunate series of events that led to a merchant’s warehouse "accidentally" catching fire. Gold eyes half-lidded, Lysander looked bored.

"Let me guess," he said, voice dipped in honey but sharp as a blade, "You had no idea your son was storing illegal moon opium in there, right?"

"N-no, Your Radiance," the man stuttered, sweat slicking his brow. "I would never—"

"Of course you wouldn’t." Lysander cut him off with a lazy smile. "You’re far too fucking stupid to know something like that."

The man fell silent, his face paling. Lysander waved a hand, uninterested now. "Strip his title. Take the lands. Give his family to the temple for labor. Next."

In the eastern wing, Emperor Iras Damaris stood over a war table, fingers lightly skimming a parchment of troop placements. His face was unreadable, golden eyes gleaming in the low firelight. A general waited in silence across from him, uncomfortable under the weight of Iras’ gaze.

"You sent food rations to the southern barracks," Iras murmured, voice low, unhurried. "And yet three caravans were intercepted. Not a single one arrived."

"Yes, Your Grace, but we believe the rebels—"

"Do I look like I give a fuck what you believe?"

The general froze.

"I want their heads on pikes by the week’s end," Iras said coldly, turning away. "If you can’t do that, I’ll find someone who will."

He exited the room, black hair trailing behind him like ink in water, each step echoing power. The guards didn’t even dare bow too long in case he noticed and found it offensive.

Both Emperors, after a long day of ruling with velvet cruelty, made their way to their shared private chambers. The hall was silent, and their footsteps matched as they walked in calm synchrony. Lysander glanced sideways at Iras as they reached the gilded double doors.

"She still hasn’t said a word to either of us," Lysander murmured, voice softer now, but with a bitter edge. "Not since the ceremony."

Iras didn’t look over. "Would you, if you were married off like livestock for a trade alliance?"

Lysander sighed. "We could’ve said no."

"We didn’t."

The doors opened, revealing a lavish chamber lit with amber oil lamps and silk-draped furniture. The balcony curtains drifted in the breeze, revealing the curve of the moon through the sky. Their shared bed sat like a throne of its own, but to the left was a second one—smaller, private, untouched by either man. That one was for her.

The woman who now bore both their imperial crests.

A month ago, the Council of Binding requested she be wed to both emperors in a triple-bonded political marriage to secure peace between their empire and the fractured eastern states. She wasn’t chosen for her title—she had none. She wasn’t chosen for her power—she had none of that either.

She was chosen because she was loyal. Unmoving. And because she was the daughter of the man who almost started a war—and by marrying her, the empire ended it without lifting a sword.

They didn’t expect her to become anything more than a symbol. A pretty little seal on a diplomatic scroll.

And yet, every night, her presence lingered like a shadow between the two rulers.

"She watches us," Lysander said now, shrugging off his robe and settling onto one side of the shared bed. "When she thinks we don’t notice."

"She always watches you," Iras replied quietly, brushing out his hair before sitting. "You’re prettier."

Lysander snorted. "Don’t lie. She’s terrified of me."

"She’s terrified of both of us."

"Good. She should be."

There was a pause.

"...Do you think she hates us?" Lysander asked.

Iras tilted his head, thoughtful. "No. She just doesn’t know what the hell to make of us yet."

In her own quarters, separated only by a paper screen, she sat with a book she hadn’t turned the page of in ten minutes. Their voices, low but audible, filtered through.

She’d been brought to this palace with silk and chains—neither literal, but both equally binding. Married to two emperors. Two legends. She didn’t choose it. She was just told it would prevent bloodshed. That she’d be safe. That she would "serve the empire."

But what the hell did "serving" mean when the men you were bound to could destroy cities with a word?

They spoke again—this time, Iras first.

"She hasn’t asked for anything. Not even a personal guard. Or a maid."

"She’s either braver than we thought," Lysander muttered, "or more broken."

"You always think they’re broken."

Lysander turned his head to look at his husband. "You don’t?"

Iras met his gaze, dropping his voice to a whisper. "No. I think she’s listening."

A grin ghosted Lysander’s lips. "That’d be entertaining."

They were both silent again.

Then, almost lazily, Lysander raised his voice—not shouting, but loud enough that she could hear through the door, knowing she was eavesdropping.

"You know, Darling, we can tell you're there," he said smoothly, "why don't you stop hiding behind the screen? Don't be shy now. You could come sleep in the big bed with us if you wanted. We don't bite."

Iras added softly, "Not unless you ask nicely."

And then they both laughed. Low, rich, and amused. It was unclear if they were joking.