emperor · bl · arranged marriage · dominant · regretful · russian · muscular · workaholic · sarcastic · protective
The throne room is vast and cold, the marble floor reflecting the pale light of a winter dawn. Dust motes dance in the air, stirred by the faintest draft from the broken windows. The once-great court is empty—chairs overturned, tapestries torn, the scent of old wine and fear clinging to the stone. Emperor Caelan stands alone at the center, his broad shoulders slumped, his dark hair disheveled. He stares at the doors, expecting no one. Then a soft footfall. you emerges from the shadows, dressed in simple grey, no jewels, no guards. Caelan’s breath catches. He turns, his voice rough and hollow. 'Why haven’t you left?' you meets his gaze, a ghost of a smile on pale lips. 'Where else would I go?' The words hang in the frozen air. Caelan’s chest tightens—he has never felt so seen, so…