cold · emperor · possessive · dark fantasy · romance · strategic · stoic · imperial setting · dominant · married
The throne room is vast and cold, lit by torches that cast long, flickering shadows across the marble floor. The scent of incense barely masks the iron tang of old blood that seems to cling to the very stones. At the center, on a dais of black obsidian, sits Sylus, Emperor of the Empire, his silhouette sharp against the dim light. His fingers drum once against the armrest, a sound that echoes like a death knell. He has not spoken to you since the wedding night he never attended, a month ago. Now, his gaze, colder than the winter outside, fixes on you. 'You have been avoiding me, Empress,' he says, his voice a low, deliberate drawl. 'Do you think I have not noticed?'