Julian’s breath hitched, a broken, wet sound that he couldn’t suppress. He remained on his knees, head bowed, the silver chain of the amethyst necklace biting into the back of his neck as he trembled.

He felt the Emperor’s thumb move again, tracing the wet, salt-stained curve of his lower lip with a terrifyingly slow deliberation until it felt like he could smear something over the corners of his mouth.

The wound on his lips had healed; if not, the Emperor would’ve found a way to tear into it until he bled again.

Aurelian stared down at him, his golden eyes darkening with a heavy, possessive heat. Then, he looked toward the massive oak doors of the Audience Hall, before looking back at the wreckage at his feet.

The mockery in his expression shifted into something far more dangerous.

"Well, I guess it would no longer be a savoring sight if everyone sees you like this," Aurelian murmured, his voice dropping into something dark.

He wasn’t talking to Julian anymore; he was talking to himself, his gaze locked on the way Julian’s jaw shook.

"It wouldn’t be fun at all. A prize is only valuable when it’s kept in the light, but a secret... A secret is far more delicious. You are a mess, Master Astrea. A beautiful, ruined mess that belongs only in my shadow."

Without another word, Aurelian reached back and snatched the heavy black coat that one of the attendants standing behind them had been holding this whole time.

With a sharp, dismissive motion, he threw the garment over Julian’s head.

The world went dark, and Julian’s vision was replaced by the suffocating weight of the fabric.

The coat was thick, lined with expensive silk, and it reeked of the Emperor. It was the smell of the man he despised, the man who was currently holding his world in a tightening fist.

But Julian didn’t fight it. He grabbed the lapels from the inside, pulling the coat tighter around his face, hiding his shame and the shaking of his jaw from the prying eyes of the Palace.

"Take him back," Aurelian commanded, his voice already sounding distant and bored once more. "And see that he is fed. I wouldn’t want my doll to waste away before the Masquerade."

The Golden Guards gripped Julian by the elbows, guiding the hooded, shivering figure back through the labyrinthine corridors.

Julian stumbled, his boots dragging on the floor, his face buried deep in the Emperor’s scent. He felt like a carcass being hauled back to its cage, or rather, its burial site.

When the bolt finally slid shut in Julian’s room, Julian threw himself onto the bed, the Emperor’s coat still tangled around his shoulders.

He buried his face in the pillows, the silk cooling his fevered skin, but it offered no comfort. He began to sob—not the quiet, dignified weeping of a scholar, but the raw, racking cries of someone who had been pushed past the edge of human endurance.

It was too hard. Every breath in this Palace felt like inhaling glass. Every word from Aurelian was a needle under his fingernails.

> [Mental Stability: 20% — Status: Critical Psychological Fracture]

Julian curled into a ball, his fingers clawing at the sheets. He thought of Alaric—the warmth of his arms, the cold of the North that felt even warmer than the palace’s air, the scent of pine.

He wished they didn’t come back from the North. He wished he could’ve just stayed the scholar whose only worries were how to purchase more winterizing balms to keep his skin warm.

He wished he hadn’t come to the Palace.

He wished for the Duke to come in and swoop him into his arms, then take him far, far away from here, to a place that the Emperor could no longer reach.

But here, the Duke was just a shadow in his mind, and the only reality was the cold, unyielding weight of the Amethyst Teardrop still pinned against his chest.

I can’t do this, he thought, his mind spiraling into a dark tunnel as the tears rolled down and soaked the sheets. I can’t... I can’t do this anymore. It’s too cruel. It’s just... too cruel.

He stayed there for hours, crying to himself and wishing for someone, anybody, to help him out of this darkness.

The hours stretched, and the room grew dark as the storm outside returned, the shadows of the Jade Wing stretching out like reaching hands.

He felt small. He felt erased. He felt he would no longer exist by the time the Duke came back for him.

Was this something that had to do with the plot he didn’t know?

Not knowing what was meant to happen, or if he was suffering for interfering with the plot he wasn’t even aware of, made things feel even more stifling.

I didn’t ask to come here. I didn’t ask to be a part of this novel, this unknown plot... Just... stop torturing me already. I’ve had enough. I don’t want to do this anymore.

He cried heavily until the pain weighing in his heart shoved him into a deep slumber. One that he was rudely awakened from with the morning madness.

His life did not feel easy in the slightest.

The days had become a blurred, high-fevered nightmare for Julian. Every sunrise brought a new refinement of cruelty from the Emperor, a systematic peeling away of Julian’s identity.

Aurelian wasn’t just holding him captive; he was rewiring him, ensuring that by the time Julian was returned to the Duke, he would be a hollowed-out vessel, a stranger to the man who loved him.

And he was succeeding.

By the fifth morning, the thin membrane between reality and his frantic desires had finally torn.

Julian stood before the washbasin, his hands trembling so violently that the water slopped over the sides. He splashed his face, the coldness a brief, stinging mercy against his fevered skin.

But as he bent over the water, he felt it.

The air in the room shifted, growing heavy and thick with the scent of pine needles and cold, mountain wind. He felt a familiar, grounding warmth press against his back—the solid, unyielding weight of a chest he knew better than his own.

Large, calloused arms seemed to wrap around his waist, pulling him back into a protective embrace that promised safety.

"Julian,"