I woke with the faint golden light of morning spilling across the chamber, dust motes floating lazily in the air.
My body, still unfamiliar, felt heavier today—like the memory of the Duke's obligations had pressed itself into my bones overnight. I didn't move at first.
My mind was a storm, spinning with the remnants of yesterday: the Emperor's tea, his smile, the impossible, deliberate weight of his hand, the kiss.
I shook my head, muttering under my breath, "Focus, Lio. Survive. Just survive."
The letter arrived without ceremony.
No announcement. No knock. Just a quiet presence on my desk when I returned to my chambers, as if it had always been there and I had merely failed to notice it until now.
Imperial seal.
Gold wax. Perfectly pressed.
I stopped walking.
For a long moment, I simply stared at it, my fingers hovering just above the edge of the desk. The room felt too still, the air too clean. Even the curtains barely moved, as though the world itself was holding its breath.
So soon?
I exhaled slowly and broke the seal.
The paper was thick. Expensive. The kind meant to last decades.
> Duke Lioren,
I hope this finds you well.
I found myself thinking that our tea ended far too quickly. You have a habit of leaving conversations unfinished—perhaps unintentionally.
This is not a request.
I ask that you accept the enclosed gift and keep it.
It cannot be returned.
You will wear it on your birthday.
—Kael
No threats.
No justification.
No explanation.
Just certainty.
I folded the letter once. Then again. Carefully. Too carefully. My hands were steady, but my chest felt tight in a way I didn't like.
There was a second item beneath the paper.
A small velvet box.
Black. Unmarked.
I hesitated before opening it. Not out of fear—fear was loud—but out of something colder. Calculation. Instinct.
Jewelry meant symbolism. Visibility. Ownership disguised as generosity.
I opened it.
Inside lay a necklace.
Silver, but not the pale kind. Darker. Northern metal, unmistakably so. The chain was thin, elegant, deceptively simple. At its center rested a single piece: an obsidian gem cut into a shape that wasn't quite a teardrop, not quite a blade.
It caught the light sharply.
Imperial craftsmanship. Northern material.
A statement.
I didn't touch it at first.
My gaze traced the setting, the clasp, the way the metal curved just enough to sit at the hollow of the throat. It was beautiful in the way dangerous things often were—precise, intentional, impossible to ignore once noticed.
You will wear it on your birthday.
I closed the box.
Slowly, I sat down.
Of course it couldn't be returned. Returning it would be refusal. Refusal would be read as defiance. And defiance—especially quiet defiance—was never forgiven by those who smiled as easily as Kael did.
This wasn't affection.
This was a marker.
I pressed my thumb lightly against the lid of the box, grounding myself. Think. Strategize. This was not the moment to spiral.
Rule one: Do not react emotionally.
Rule two: Do not read intention where power is enough.
Rule three: Do not underestimate charm.
A gift like this wasn't meant to trap me immediately. It was meant to normalize proximity. To create expectation. To place me in a position where refusal later would look unreasonable.
Clever.
I stood and crossed the room, placing the box inside a drawer—not hidden, not displayed. Neutral. For now.
Then I returned to the desk and reread the letter.
This is not a request.
The phrasing was almost polite. Almost gentle. That was what made it dangerous. He hadn't demanded. He hadn't threatened. He had simply assumed compliance.
And worse—
He believed I would understand why.
I folded the letter and placed it beneath a ledger, as if burying it under routine would lessen its weight.
It didn't.
The rest of the day passed in fragments. Reports. Signatures. Decisions made on instinct sharpened by borrowed memories. I functioned. I always did. That was the advantage of this body—it knew how to rule even when the mind inside it wavered.
But every now and then, my thoughts circled back.
The gift.
The certainty in his words.
The way he looked at me when he thought I wasn't watching.
I tightened my grip on my quill and forced myself back to the present.
No speculation. No assumptions. Not yet.
By evening, the light had softened, shadows stretching long across the chamber. I dismissed the servants early and remained alone, the silence settling around me like a second skin.
I opened the drawer again.
The velvet box waited patiently.
I didn't take the necklace out. I didn't need to. Its presence was enough. A reminder that someone had made a decision about me without asking.
I closed the drawer.
That was when the door opened.
No announcement. No warning.
I looked up just as the door swung inward—
—and froze.
The interruption was sudden, sharp enough to cut through every thought at once.
He stood there, framed by the dim hallway light, clearly not expecting to find me still awake.
For a split second, no one spoke.
Then—
"Lio," he said, breathless, eyes flicking instinctively to my desk, my hands, my expression. "We need to talk."
His gaze lingered on me a fraction too long, as if searching for something he couldn't quite name.
I straightened in my chair.
The drawer remained closed.
And whatever had been quietly unfolding all day—
had just collided with something else entirely.