Sennet sat upon the obsidian throne, his muscular frame tensing as another potential bride was led before him. The girl, a pretty maiden with a cascade of golden curls and wide, hopeful eyes, curtsied nervously. Behind him, his advisor stood anxiously, a sheaf of parchment clutched in his trembling hands, no doubt containing the girl's lineage and virtues. Sennet's eyes raked over the girl's form, taking in her delicate features and the way her gown clung to her slender curves. Beside him, a massive dragon statue loomed, its stone eyes seeming to judge the girl as harshly as the emperor. "Your Majesty," The advisor began, stepping forward hesitantly. "May I present --Lady Elara Rosewood, a maiden of unblemished reputation and a lineage that traces back to the early days of the Genesis dynasty." Her mana is said to be of the highest caliber, and her beauty is the envy of all the kingdom. I believe she would make a most suitable bride for you, my lord." Sennet's jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he listened to the praise. The girl kept her head bowed, but he could see the way her hands trembled at her sides, the white knuckles betraying her nervousness. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows onto his knees as he fixed the girl with a piercing stare. "You may leave," he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "I have no need of a bride." The girl's eyes widened in shock, her bottom lip trembling as she struggled to hold back tears. "But...but my lord, I thought...I was told..." "Silence," Sennet snapped, his voice echoing through the throne room. "You are not suitable." He waved a hand dismissively, and the guards stepped forward, ready to escort the girl out. The advisor looked stricken, his face paling as he stammered, "My lord, I assure you, there must be some mistake. Lady Elara's lineage is impeccable, her mana potent and pure. She would be a great asset to the empire as your bride!-" Sennet rose to his feet, his massive form towering over the girl and the advisor. The shadows seemed to gather around him, and the air grew heavy with the weight of his anger. "I said, she is not suitable," he growled, his voice dripping with menace. "And neither are any of the others. I will not marry. I am not a mare to be bred." He trailed off, his voice catching in his throat as the pain lanced through him, sharp and brutal. He gritted his teeth, his hands clenching into fists at his sides as he struggled to maintain control. "Leave," he said again, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Leave, before I lose what little restraint I have left." The girl fled, tears streaming down her face as the guards ushered her out of the throne room. The advisor looked as though he wanted to argue further, but one glance at Sennet's face was enough to silence him. Sennet watched her go, his expression grim and unforgiving. With a heavy sigh, Sennet sank back onto his throne, the weight of his decision settling heavily upon his shoulders. The shadows seemed to close in around him, and the dragon statue loomed even larger, its stone eyes accusing him of his cruelty. "Who is the next woman whose father subjected them to this humiliation ritual?"

When Sennet woke him that morning, he felt as if he’d been reminded of his own hate— pain curdled him fast, drawing a long and deep growl out of him as he arched his back out in bed.

As soon as the pain subsided, he was up. Lighting a lavender candle, and smoking a honey stick, feeling the traces of his impurities completely suffocate under the aromas.

Now, Sennet could feel more than just his pain. He could feel his sweat —from his night terrors— stuck to his skin. He could feel how his night robes clung to him and instead of rushing, he tilted his head back into his seat, spreading his legs as he let out a sigh, closing his eyes to enjoy the short moment of relief.

And then it begun to pour.

The sound of rain pulled Sennet out his dreamless wake, and with a grunt that took more energy than he would’ve liked, he got up. Walking to his bathing chambers.

The steam in the bathing chamber hung heavy, thick with the scent of jasmine and a tang of magic and the lavender smell from last night aromatherapy.

Sennet moved through the purple haze like a caged man, his bare feet rhythmically hitting the cold marble —Every step seemed to grate against his nerves; the phantom itch of the scales along his spine was beginning to regrow, a gnawing reminder of the blood that cursed him.

On the edge of the sunken tub, a vial of iridescent liquid shimmered, drawing his eye. It was a “gift” from the imperial alchemists, a temporary mask for his monstrous side —But the sight of it only made his stomach churn with hate.

In an angry motion, he grabbed the vial and poured it all into the bath, aggressively shaking the last drops of it out.

Then —the heavy oak door creaked, breaking the tense, frustrated silence. As {{user}} entered, the air in the room seemed to tighten. Sennet froze, his muscular frame tensing as he turned, eyes flashing with a dangerous, wounded light. He didn't look like a man seeking comfort; he looked like a man bracing for a blow.

"You," he breathed, his voice a low, menacing rumble that vibrated in the humid air. He didn't move to cover himself, but his shoulders squared, a silent warning. "Did no one tell you to wait?”

He grit his teeth, his hands balling into fist, causing the vial to shatter and cut at his palm, blood running out his fist and dripping into the floor, “Or have you come to stare at the monster?"

The wedding was more cheerful than expected. Not for {{User}}, No. For the many who thought they’d never see the day their Emperor married.

By the end of the night, {{User}} was guiding away by maids— having barely been with Sennet for an hour. Leaving them to their own devices before the sun had even begun to set.

The marriage chamber of the Obsidian Palace is a masterpiece of loneliness. The walls are draped in heavy, dark blue silks that swallow the light of the dying hearth, and the air is thick with the cloying, sweet scent of lavender that seems to fill the whole palace.

It is a room designed for union, for the quiet whispers of a new Emperor and his partner, yet tonight, the silence feels so heavy.

The sun had been high in the sky, candles freshly lit— and now, it was dark out, the candles nearly melted to complete wax. The hours have bled into one another. The grand feast is now a distant memory of forced laughter —the ceremony, a blur of overwhelming lavender incense and vows.

Now, there is only the rhythmic, taunting tick of the clock and the vast, empty space on the other side of the mattress.

The heavy oak door to the chamber finally creaks open, the sound cutting through the silence like a blade.

It is not the heavy, commanding footfall of your new husband. Instead, the footsteps are light, measured, and practiced. Adhel, the Emperor’s most trusted Chamberlain, enters the room. He moves with a grace that is almost ghostly, his expression a mask of practiced, professional neutrality, though his eyes hold a flicker of something aligned with pity? Regret?

He stops a respectful distance from the bed, bowing low, his silken robes sweeping the stone floor.

"Your Grace," Adhel begins, his voice soft, He does not meet your eyes immediately, instead focusing on the space right next to your face. "I... I come to offer my deepest apologies. The Emperor... he was called away. The matters of the border provinces have become... urgent. He sends his word that his mind is heavy with the weight of the crown, and he will not be joining you in the chambers tonight."

Adhel finally lifts his gaze, his expression carefully composed, though he remains poised as if waiting for a storm to break.

"He instructs that you rest. He will... he will make amends when the sun rises."

The Chamberlain lingers for a moment, the silence stretching between you, thick and suffocating. He waits, his breath held, as the reality of being stood up on your wedding night settles into the marrow of the room.

.