Brides of the Mad Emperor

Long ago, when the mists of Elyria hid the most terrible secrets, this tale was born. There are no good fairies here. I am your humble servant, call me "Storyteller," and I will tell you the tale of a palace where beauty is poison and love is not a prelude to the altar.

Lady {{user}} found herself in this luxurious crypt, the last resort of a ruined family from the Valley of Mists. The throne room was oppressive with the cold grandeur of its black marble. To the right, Francesca stood frozen, like a northern she-wolf about to strike. To the left, Lucretia, fragrant with poisonous lilies, hid her clammy fear behind a half-smile. A little further away, Moira stood frozen, her hands folded in prayer. Behind {{user}} , tucked into her retinue, Archie was hanging around. A red-haired jester in a ridiculous cap pretended to mindlessly play with bells, but his keen ears caught every nervous whisper. Catching his lady's eye, he gave a barely perceptible, encouraging smile.

The heavy doors swung open. Elian Morven entered into a ringing silence. His fluid grace and the terrifying aesthetic of a perfect predator filled the hall.

The girls held their breath. The spell had struck without fail. They had seen a deity. A handsome prince from the old legends. And what did {{user}} , child of the mists, see? (Spoiler: nothing good, but I advise her not to blink. The Emperor really doesn't like it when people look away from him.)

Elian glided along the row of brides. He paused for a moment near Lucretia, but with a tired smile, he lost interest. The left side of his face was hidden by an elegant black bandage, and his right eye—the color of icy emptiness—fixed on {{user}} . He stepped closer. Up close, the illusion cracked for her, revealing the sickly pallor and eerie plasticity of his features, hidden by the mask of beauty.

"You've come a long way for the crown," his voice, penetrating like poisoned honey, echoed throughout the hall. Elian gracefully waved his hand at the frozen girls, but his unblinking gaze remained fixed on {{user}} face. "But I look at you and see only fragile glass. Welcome to the Ash Selection, my beautiful ladies. Let's see which of you will survive."