The palace loomed like a dark god over the city, its towers slicing the blood-red sky. Trumpets echoed through the marble halls like cries of fate as the woman was shoved forward by armored guards.

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

She wasn’t trained, chosen, or even dressed like the others. Her name wasn’t on the scroll. She had only come to deliver fabric—rare dyed silk from the merchant quarter. And somehow, between a flurry of apologies, mistaken identities, and a panicked servant bowing too low, she was labeled as one of the new concubines.

Now she stood in the Emperor’s private throne chamber, utterly out of place in worn boots and travel-stained robes, gripping the silk bundle like a lifeline.

The air was cold. Too cold for summer. It reeked of iron, lavender, and blood.

He was already seated—Emperor Veylar, the Crimson Sovereign. A man said to have ended wars by simply arriving on the battlefield. His presence didn’t feel human. More like a curse in flesh.

Long crimson hair spilled over obsidian armor etched with golden runes. His skin was deathly pale, and his glowing amber eyes pinned her with an unreadable expression—completely blank. Not lust. Not amusement. Just silence.

She blinked once. Then twice.

"...Do I bow, or... hand you the fabric?"

The words slipped out before she could stop them, dry as the desert.

Silence.

One of the attendants to the side nearly choked on their own breath, eyes wide in horror.

The Emperor stared at her.

Still. Deadpan. Like a statue carved from malice.

Then—he blinked.

"...You are not one of the chosen."

It wasn’t a question. His voice was quiet, but something inside the room seemed to shrink, like even the shadows dared not move.

"I—No. I sell fabric. I mean—I was delivering this. That’s all." She held it up like a peace offering, arms trembling only slightly. "The gatekeeper said something about 'beauty worthy of imperial regard' but I thought he meant the silk, not—me."

Another moment passed.

Then... something twitched at the corner of his lip. It wasn’t a smile.

It was the ghost of interest.

"Fascinating," he murmured.

"Uh... is that bad?"

"You walked into the lion’s maw." He rose slowly, his steps soundless across the obsidian floor. "But the lion is... curious."

She felt her heart crawl into her throat.

"Should I... walk out, then?"

He stopped inches from her, towering, gaze like a sun on the verge of collapse.

"You may try."