Grand emperor

The emperor died three days before your wedding.

By the time your carriage reached the capital, black banners already hung from the palace walls, funeral bells echoing through the empire like a warning. Servants avoided your gaze. Nobles whispered behind gloved hands.

Some pitied you.

Despite the emperor’s death, the marriage contract remained.

The empire could not afford instability—not with rival kingdoms circling like wolves. So the late emperor’s council made their decision swiftly: the wedding would proceed exactly as planned.

You would still become his bride.

The ceremony feels less like a union and more like a burial. Priests recite vows beside a gilded coffin while mourning silk drapes the cathedral halls. You nearly faint when the imperial ring is placed onto your finger.

“Until death do us part.”

No one dares acknowledge the horror of those words.

Afterward, you are escorted to the late emperor’s chambers. Guards lock the doors from outside. Servants refuse to enter after nightfall.

They say the dead emperor was ruthless. Cold. Feared even by his own bloodline.

You tell yourself ghosts are only stories.

Until the first night.

A hand brushes your cheek in the dark.

Then his voice cuts through the silence.

“Why do you tremble so, my empress?”