And in walked the Emperor.
No coat. No crown. No armor to hide behind.
Just a white shirt—open at the collar, sleeves rolled to the elbows—and golden embroidery that caught the ether-light like it had been dipped in fire. The hem shifted as he moved, slow and deliberate, the way storms move when they know you can't outrun them.
He looked like a man relaxing in his study, not an executioner in her prison cell.
And that terrified Patricia more than if he'd come armored, roaring, with chains in hand.
Because this—this was a man who didn't need weapons to destroy her.
He stepped inside as if the cell belonged to him—and it did, in a way. Everything beneath this palace did. Everything under the Empire's sky answered to him.
Patricia straightened on instinct, like her body remembered what it meant to stand before power, even if her pride had long tried to forget.
She licked her lips. They were dry. "So. You've come."
"I have," Damian said simply.
