The carriage rocked over the bumpy road, making Ophelia more irritated than she already was. If only the servants had taken care of her comfort the way they do for her siblings. Ophelia adjusted the folds of her sapphire gown, simple silver embroidery glinting like stars. Every jewel, ribbon, and strand of unruly hair was carefully placed. She had the maids assist her, every detail carefully considered — wanting to face the Emperor perfectly composed. Just thinking about how long it took her to find a gown suitable for a formal meeting tired her. She's only ever worn nightgowns as her health allowed it.
She looked out at the unbroken blue of the sky. It figured the gods would grant her good weather now, of all times. Not mercy—just amusement. Keep watching, she told them silently. You'll have your story soon enough.
The sudden jolt of the carriage shattered her plotting. She caught the door handle just in time, bracing herself before her head could meet the window. When the wheels finally steadied, she sank back against the seat with a sharp sigh. The relief barely had a chance to breathe before another round of bumps rattled through her—bone to marrow, reminder and insult all at once.
She shoved the window open, irritation crackling in her tone. "Lyeon!"
Riding beside the carriage, the knight turned toward her, reins loose in one hand and a half-smirk already in place. "Enjoying the ride, My Lady?"
Her glare could've curdled milk. "Tell the driver to keep his wits about him. Or is he planning to kill me before we even reach that cursed palace?"
Lyeon tilted his head, as if thinking it over. "Would make the trip shorter."
"Lyeon." Her voice dropped, quiet and dangerous.
His smirk faltered—the sharp edge in her tone catching him off guard. He straightened at once, all traces of mockery gone. "Right. Slower. Got it."
She shut the window and eyed her reflection, smoothing down what could hardly be called hair. The uneven cut barely reached her shoulders. Lira, poor thing, had tried to make sense of it—two braids looped back and fastened with jewels to make her look less like a ghost and more like a princess.
A knot of unease twisted in Ophelia's gut. She'd marched off to face the Emperor without even requesting an audience—no plan, no thought, just impulse. Her teeth worried at a nail as she muttered a curse under her breath. Death, it seemed, hadn't cured her of poor decisions.
Before she could come up with an excuse to turn back, the carriage jolted to a stop.
"We've arrived, Your Highness," the driver called.
She wiped her clammy palms on her gown. "Compose yourself," she muttered. "It's just the Emperor, not the gallows."
For a moment, she waited—long enough for Lyeon to redeem himself, to remember basic courtesy and open the door. When silence answered, she scoffed, shoved it open herself, and stepped out with all the grace she could muster. She didn't spare him a glance.
Keep testing me, Lyeon, she thought darkly, and I'll show you what real regret feels like.
The Palace of the Veil of Stars rose ahead, a silver wound in the serene sky—too tranquil for what waited inside. Spires clawed at the heavens, light slipping across them like liquid metal. Ophelia's gaze traced the familiar carvings, the gilded balconies, the banners fluttering in arrogant rhythm. Compared to this behemoth, her east wing was a servant's quarters. Of course it was. The Emperor loved spectacle; opulence was his favorite weapon. Let him have his glitter, she thought. Even loneliness looks impressive when it's plated in gold.
Ophelia ignored the slow churn of panic rising in her chest as the gates came into view—gilded iron twisting like vines, catching the sun as if mocking her nerves. She crossed the marble courtyard, her heels striking in steady defiance. The air smelled of roses and wax, the kind of purity that came only from servants scrubbing away life itself. Beyond, the great doors of the hall waited—tall, grand. They looked as cold and unwelcoming as the man who ruled behind them.
The corridors stretched on forever, pillars rising like they were built to make people feel small. Portraits of long-dead Emperors lined the walls, watching her with that same stale grandeur. Ophelia paused to study them—ugly men in crowns—and felt a flicker of satisfaction. Serves you right.
Light poured through stained glass, breaking into shards of crimson and gold across the marble. Her steps rang in the silence, steady despite the tension knotting in her chest. At the end of the hall stood the throne room doors—massive oak carved with the imperial crest, a sword spearing a star. Two guards crossed their spears as her gaze met theirs.
This was it. The Lion's den.
"Inform His Majesty that the Second Princess is here," she said, posture perfect, tone clipped.
The guards didn't move. Their eyes slid over her with the kind of indifference that stung worse than insult.
"Ah, I see," she said, a thin smile ghosting her lips. "The Emperor's daughter returns from her sickbed, and suddenly titles no longer carry weight?"
Both men exchanged a glance, their postures stiffening with unease. There it is. Ophelia's smile deepened, slow and sharp. One of them turned and disappeared into the throne room, leaving the other rooted in place. She met his stare head-on, just to watch him squirm, until the oak doors creaked open again and the first guard's voice rang out—
"You have been granted an audience with His Majesty."
Ophelia stepped inside, the doors clicking shut behind her. Her chest tightened as she surveyed the throne room—vast, unfamiliar, alive with the weight of power she'd never had.
The room was a cathedral of authority and presence. Marble floors stretched endlessly, polished so bright that they might have been meant for worship rather than walking. Banners of deep blue and silver hung from the vaulted ceiling— a whole sky of stitched stars reminding everyone who they supposedly served. The air was thick with incense and ego.
And there he was.
The Emperor.
Seated on a throne that looked designed to crush the faint-hearted, he might as well have been carved from the same stone as the hall itself. His crown rested elsewhere; even with streaks of grey in his hair, he needed no gilded circlet to command attention. He appeared bored, but those glacial blue eyes cut through the hall with a precision born of power, not warmth.
Beside him stood the minister, Aldric—a scrawny man with glasses perched too carefully on his nose and a ledger clutched like a lifeline. The little chatterbox had always been the Emperor's voice when he didn't feel like speaking. She had hated him even as a child, watching him strut through the East Wing, barking orders at her mother and calling her a "mere maid" with all the arrogance of a man who thought he owned the world. Her mother had only smiled, brushing it off. It's alright, Ophelia, she'd say, hiding the sting behind warmth. Now, Aldric bent forward, trembling with reverence and fear, a pitiful echo of the unjust man she had once watched dominate the woman she loved.
Ophelia lowered herself in a practiced curtsy, head bowed just enough to appease formality. Not waiting for permission, she rose, spine straight, chin high, daring the room to question her.
"Your Highness," the minister adjusted his glasses with a nervous tug, fingers lingering on the frame longer than necessary. "It is a rare pleasure to see you within the great hall. May I inquire as to the nature of your visit?"
"The nature?" Ophelia's lips curved faintly. "Let's call it neglect. The steward of the east wing seems to believe my requests are optional."
The minister tensed, blinking at her with a mix of shock and unease, as if the sharpness in her voice had sliced right through the fragile image he had of her—a sickly mouse hiding behind her mother's skirts.
Ophelia continued: "I asked for my physician to be replaced. He refused, citing his majesty's authority." She cast a quick glance at the Emperor, who lounged in his throne, fixated on the pendant at her throat—a blue stone mirroring her own eyes, a final gift from her mother. Ophelia tensed at the unusual attention. It was unsettling, out of place, and entirely too deliberate.
Aldric shifted his weight, fingertips brushing the parchment he held as though for steadiness. "Your Highness speaks harshly. I was informed your physician, Dr. Alistair, had been tending to you with utmost care."
Ophelia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "If his care were truly utmost, I would not be watching my health decline day by day. The man isn't even able to tell the difference between a fever and a near funeral."
The minister stiffened, darting a glance toward the throne. The Emperor's expression didn't shift, but the air seemed to narrow around him, dense with silence. Aldric hesitated before speaking.
"Surely Your Highness exaggerates. His majesty appointed Dr. Alistair himself—"
"Then perhaps his majesty should know his choice is killing his daughter by inches." A shadow of something crossed the Emperor's eyes—gone before anyone could name it.
Ophelia pushed, seizing the opportunity. "If the physician were competent, I would be improving, not rotting away in silk sheets." Her words echoed across the nearby marble floor, bold and unwise in any other mouth.
She looked at the Emperor, hoping for a reaction. His gaze lifted to her, unhurried, sharp enough to cut through every layer of civility in the room.
Then came his voice— slipping out like steel, smooth but impossible to ignore.
"Are you questioning my judgement?"