A faint scent of incense drifted through the air. The room was dimly lit, yet the heat was palpable. Half-conscious, she felt her eyelids slowly lift with effort. Cold sweat clung to her skin, and a sharp pain in her abdomen made her wince. It felt as though she were awakening from a long nightmare.

  She barely managed to discern the outlines of her room, which she now perceived as her prison. Silence reigned—icy, despite the stifling warmth.

  By some miracle—or perhaps by misfortune—she was alive.

  The girl pushed aside the silk sheets and heavy blankets, then lowered her gaze to her wound. A bandage, tinged pink with blood, was wrapped around her stomach. Her thoughts drifted back to what had led to this. She searched the room for her son, but there was no sign of him. She would likely never see him again. At that realization, she began to weep.

  ???

  The key turned in the lock, and the door opened. A man stepped inside. In the dimness, she could make out only that he was tall, with long silver hair. With light, measured steps, he approached the girl.

  In the candlelight, she caught a glimpse of the shadow of a satisfied smile upon his face. Fear made her flinch. Ashamed, her eyes reddened with tears, she turned her gaze away.

  “Behold, my dear, what the finest healers of this age may achieve. I trust this trial hath taught thee somewhat. Beware the wishes thou dost make. After all, is it not mine office, as Emperor, to grant them? Naught here shall defy my will. Thou shalt escape death only if I decree it.”

  Tears welled once more in the girl’s eyes. She clenched her jaw.

  “I have ever ensured that thou hadst all thou didst require. I never meant thee harm. Gratitude thou shouldst have shown me, yet all I received was contempt. My patience hath been ample.”

  His cold words cut like a razor. Even so, she gathered what little courage she had left and asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  “Where… is my son?”

  “He is in good keeping. Thou needst no longer fear for him.”

  “How long? How long… has it been?”

  “A week hath passed.”

  “I want… to see him. P-please.”

  “Nay. It is needless.”

  She tried to sit up, but failed. Her voice broke as she raised it.

  “Please! Let me see him! I’ll do whatever you want… I won’t resist anymore. You may raise him however you wish, but… let me see him… I beg you…”

  “Dost thou truly think I need thy permission to raise my son as I see fit? Dost thou think thy pleas will suffice to sway my decision?”

  He turned and walked toward the door.

  She did not answer. A painful tightness seized her chest. Sadness and profound despair welled within her, turning to grief as tears streamed endlessly down her cheeks.

  ???

  A full month passed, during which she remained confined to her bed.

  A handmaiden visited her every day, never speaking a word. She cleaned and dressed the girl’s wound mechanically until it fully healed after a few weeks.

  She tended to the motionless, withdrawn girl, feeding her and giving her water. The girl, crushed by grief and hopelessness, allowed herself to be cared for in silence.

  Each time she closed her eyes—whether asleep or awake—terrible nightmares consumed her.

  She was no longer in pain, yet she no longer possessed the will to rise, to fight, or even to live.

  No one else came. Not even the Emperor.

  She spent her days alone and isolated, desperately awaiting an end that would never come.