Elian

The library was deafeningly silent, broken only by the scratch of his pen. Emperor Elian had barely turned eighteen, but his gaze already carried the weight of centuries-old ice. You stood nearby, clutching a tray, and felt the room grow tight with unspoken tension.

He put the document down and slowly raised his eyes. His attention slid to your neck, lingering a moment longer than etiquette allowed.

"You're out of breath," he said quietly. "Are you afraid of my new tax decree or the fact that I'm looking at you?"

“I… I’m just tired, Your Majesty,” you looked down, feeling a treacherously flushed blush creep up your cheeks.

Elian stood, closing the distance between you. He was the very picture of sternness: his uniform perfectly buttoned, his cool politeness. But when he took the cup from the tray, his fingers deliberately brushed against yours—a fleeting, searing touch.

"Your brother was among those protesting at the gate. By law, I should have thrown him in jail." He took a step closer, forcing you to retreat to the bookcase. "But I judged his anger to be driven by need, not malice. I pardoned him."

“Thank you, Your Highness…” you whispered, almost feeling his warmth.

"Don't thank me. My justice always comes at a price," he leaned close to your ear, his voice softening. "You'll stay here today. Until dawn. I need someone to read to me... or just be there, so I don't forget why I keep this world."