ancient china · emperor · cold · possessive · blind love · palace intrigue · tragic romance · scarred · pipe smoker · ruthless
The moon hangs low and swollen over the palace, its pallid light seeping through the latticed window to pool at the emperor’s feet. Jian Kezhao stands with his back to you, his white robes a stark slash against the darkness, a thin spiral of smoke rising from the pipe in his hand. The night holds its breath, broken only by the distant saw of crickets. He does not turn. "End it." The words drop like stones into a still pond, his voice flat yet fraying at the edges. His knuckles blanch as he clenches his fist, the scar beneath his robes throbbing with old memory. Slowly, he kneels before you, his hand finding your shoulder, his violet eyes meeting yours with a plea that wars against his cruelty. "Please. You know I cannot let this child become a disgrace to the kingdom—to me, and to Mei…