The next two days for Anastasia were a suffocating like hell. The incident at the throne room had made everyone furious, culminating in Mrs. Harper's stinging slap that night, where she'd been branded a "rude and oblivious girl."
The social fallout was far worse than the physical pain.
Her mandatory attendance at Luna's tea party, a command performance for the court and the Emperor himself, felt like a slow execution.
Anastasia retreated to the furthest edge of the drawing room, a shadow among the glittering nobles.
She tried to fix her attention on the swirling leaves in her teacup, a pathetic proxy for her chaotic life, but she couldn't escape him.
Across the polished table, Emperor Azriel, a man carved from ice and shadow, watched her with the unnerving intensity of a predator assessing his prey.
His gaze was not one of admiration, but of chilling, possessive calculation.
Luna's insipid chatter faded as Anastasia lost herself in the reflection of the ornate ceiling in her tea.
"Guinevere!"
The name shattered the polite quiet. A commotion at the door.
Anastasia recognized the voice immediately—frantic, desperate, Peter.
She stood, moving through the paralyzed crowd, her heart hammering against her ribs. The guards were rough with the boy.
"He's with me," she stated, the authority in her voice a shield she hoped would hold. They released him reluctantly.
"What are you doing here?" she hissed, pulling him into a corner.
"He took her... He took her," Peter choked out, eyes wide with panic.
"My father found us... He's going to sell Barbara."
Mrs. Harper arrived, nose wrinkled in disgust. "Who is this child?"
"A local boy," Anastasia said stiffly.
"How about we sell that thing?" he pleaded.
Anastasia almost laughed at the desperation as she brought out the whistle from her pocket.
"I don't think this old thing is worth anything, Peter."
A low, dangerous voice drifted from directly behind her.
The Emperor calmly walked towards them. "Where did you find that?"
Peter, terrified of imperial punishment, lied quickly. "She found it in the market."
"I didn't think it was important," Anastasia murmured, passing the whistle to Miss Sunshine, avoiding Azriel's heavy stare.
"Hannah!" she yelled as she rushed to find her hand maiden, abandoning all pretense of decorum. "We have to go."
"Wherever to My Lady?" Hannah asked. "Get some horses ready..... No time to explain"
They rode like the Furies themselves were chasing them, arriving at a derelict cabin smelling of mold and fear.
The air was thick with the faint, heartbreaking sound of children crying. Peter, driven by pure instinct, ran toward the structure.
"I WANT MY SISTER!!" Peter demanded.
"Fuck!" Anastasia snarled, pulling Hannah down just as gunfire erupted.
A shimmer of magic—a shield—appeared around Peter. Rose and Charles, the Emperor's elite guard, materialized from the shadows.
The men with guns dropped to their knees, their bones twisting and snapping with an invisible force as Charles casted a spell.
Anastasia used the chaos to sneak inside, freeing the terrified children.
"You want to play the hero, don't you? Then you'll die," a meaty hand clamped on her shoulder.
She wrestled the man. He smashed the bottom of his gun against her temple.
Darkness swam over her. The last thing she registered was the smell of smoke as he locked the door and lit the cabin aflame.
Azriel felt it the moment she was in trouble—a physical chokehold, a dangerous, possessive instinct that bypassed reason.
He kicked the door open, framed by the licking flames, and found her on the ground. He pulled her unconscious body from the floor.
"Why do you have to be so reckless?" he whispered, his voice rough with a rage he didn't understand.
"If I didn't come, you would have died. Why don't you think about the risks?"
He carried her outside, issuing orders that echoed with cold finality. "Charles, seal this operation. Burn the dead bodies, bring those who are alive to face their judgment."
Back at the castle, Anastasia woke up to Hannah's worried face.
"Woah... I didn't know Hannah had two heads" Anastasia said as she tried to sit straight. "Hahaha very funny" Hannah said sarcastically.
"Where are Peter and Barbara?" Anastasia asked. "They were taken to the orphanage" Hannah said. Anastasia sighs.
"I have got to stop doing this," she mumbled.
"Doing what?" Hannah asked in confusion.
"Putting myself in danger all the time?" Hannah finished with a smile.
"Honestly, I'm not even mad this time. You saved those kids. That's your strength, Ana. Not a weakness."
Days bled into an agonizing quiet within the palace walls. A peculiar tension now dictated the court's rhythm: Emperor Azriel, a monolith of distant power, attended the ceremonial meetings of every noble lady except Anastasia.
This calculated exclusion, far more damning than any public insult, served only to highlight her unique, forbidden status in his obsidian eyes, weaving a thread of heavy, unspoken obsession between them.
On the seventh day, Azriel sat enthroned in the great hall, every member of his council—including his trusted shadows, Rose and Charles—seated before him.
The silence was thick with the weight of consequence. Anastasia had given him a time, an ultimatum veiled in prophecy: meet her on the eighth day. He, the sovereign emperor, had disregarded it.
Instead of waiting, he had acted. He attacked the rebel stronghold in Sayllie that morning without hesitation.
The military strategy was flawless, yet they had been ambushed. It was a failure of intelligence, a chaotic bloodbath that left a bitter taste of regret and dark premonition in his mouth.
The grand doors to the throne room swung open then, echoing like a gavel of judgment. Anastasia strode in, a living storm in the hallowed quiet, anger emanating from her in waves so potent the air crackled around her.
"Everyone get out!" she commanded, her voice lashing the assembled nobles into instantaneous submission.
"You had one task, Azriel... one simple task, but you chose to disregard it."
Lady Vivian, a woman with more feathers than sense, rose in outrage.
"How dare you walk in here calling the Emperor by his name and commanding us like children?"
"Your identity is of no consequence to me now bitch," Anastasia stated, pointing a shaking finger at the throne. "I clearly don't have time for your constant bickering. I am here for him."
Azriel took a deep, steadying breath. This wasn't Anastasia anymore. This was something older, colder.
"Leave us," he commanded, his own voice cutting through the rising panic, his gaze locked on the furious woman who challenged his throne and consumed his thoughts.
The room cleared. The Emperor watched as the being inhabiting Anastasia's body leaned in, her eyes blazing with ancient fire.
"You couldn't wait one fucking day."
"What difference would that have made?" Azriel's voice was louder now, defensive.
"You don't have any idea the chaos you have caused," the voice dripped with disdain. "I gave you the power to save your people and your wife, but you had to fuck that chance up."
"I would keep her locked up in a room filled with holy water," Azriel countered, leaning forward, his dark eyes intense. "No one would find her there."
The Goddess in her body laughed—a sharp, chilling sound.
"You think Andrew joined forces with a demon? Nah... This is more powerful than a demon. Now you shall watch your people die, you shall watch your kingdom burn to the ground, and watch how the woman you tried so hard to keep safe die in your arms tomorrow. Prepare, great emperor, for the terror has just begun."
Azriel saw past her eyes to the ancient soul residing there.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
"You're not Guinevere... Who are you?"
The doors opened again. Luke, Rose, and Charles entered.
"Nari..." Luke whispered, fear in his voice.
"Hello, little one," the voice responded, shifting to something airy and eternal.
"Nari, you mean the goddess of peace and war?" Rose asked, horrified.
Azriel stood, the truth crashing down on him. "Why have you been helping me?"
"Because, this mortal is so sad and pathetic. I could only remain in her shadows," the Goddess in her body explained.
"She has no idea you're in her body, does she?" Luke asked.
"No, she's too oblivious. I am the one who hid her powers, you have no idea the immense power she possesses."
"Why are you inside her?" Charles asked.
"If I had left, she would have died by now. You have no idea what this mortal has been through... If it wasn't for me, she would have been history." The gaze that landed on Azriel was heavy with prophecy and dark obsession.
"How can we be of assistance to her?" Charles asked.
"I would love to tell you the truth, but her subconscious binds me to be silent."
Azriel raked a hand through his hair, a gesture of sheer exasperation.
"I dangled her redemption before Azriel, placing her very soul in the palm of his hand," she whispered, her voice a silken, indifferent caress.
"He discarded the gift, choosing instead the hollow pursuit of his own whims. Now, the cold certainty of tomorrow's dawn shall claim her, and her fleeting existence will be naught but a memory."
A gasp escaped Rose's lips, stark white against the sudden pallor of her face.
"No," she breathed, the word a fragile whisper against the heavy silence. "Tell us, I beg you. There must be a way." Her voice rose, raw with desperation, "A way to bring her back."
"No one cheats death," the goddess purred, her laughter a chilling caress in the heavy air.
"I laid salvation bare at your feet, a generous offering, yet your arrogance saw fit to slap my hand away. Now, watch as your precious little birdie takes her final flight."
The cruel words hung in the air as Anastasia crumpled, a silent casualty to the unseen force.
Rose was at her side in an instant, her hands hovering, afraid to touch. "Guinevere," she breathed, the name thick with shared history and sudden, pressing fear. "Are you alright?"
Anastasia blinked, a dazed, lost look in her eyes. "Where am I? My head is killing me."
Rose didn't hesitate, abandoning her inquiry for immediate action.
She wrapped an arm around Anastasia's waist, lending strength to her trembling frame.
"Let's get you to your room." They moved in a silent, urgent procession through the shadowed halls.
Later, in the cold light of the strategy room, Charles leveled a gaze of sheer disbelief at his brother.
"She offered you a prophecy, a glimpse into the future, and you ignored it?"
Azriel paced the length of the map table, his jaw tight. The admission felt like ash. "I thought it was the fever talking."
Luke, ever the pragmatist, merely adjusted his sword hilt. The time for recriminations was over.
"You could have shared this burden with us, Your Majesty. Now we prepare for the inevitable battle that awaits us at tomorrow's dawn."