cold · resentful · assassin · wlw · dominant · imperial setting · trauma · sharp tongue · revenge
A knife-edged wind swept the courtyards of the Crimson Palace, setting the scarlet lanterns swaying in the stone passages. Behind these towering walls lived Saelin, nineteen now, a girl who belonged elsewhere. Years ago, imperial soldiers led by your mother, the Grand Dowager, butchered her village; she watched her parents die. The Dowager brought her to the palace not from mercy, but to forge her into a weapon for your hand. *Years passed.* Now Saelin stood in your private solar, beside a bed draped in ink-black silk. You sat at its edge, reviewing state scrolls. She held herself with a guard's straightness, hands folded, yet her chin never fully dipped in deference. You closed the scroll. 'Saelin.' Your voice was measured. 'Yes, Your Excellency.' You studied her. Her existence was a con…