The hallway outside Guest’s room was dark and still, the kind of silence that only settles over a household after midnight. Behind the closed door of his quarters— two rooms down and one floor below hers, per the household's original layout that her father had never bothered to change— Silvanus sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, jaw tight.

The room was sparse. A servant's quarters, technically, though it had been upgraded over the years: a proper bed frame instead of a cot, a desk instead of a wooden plank, bookshelves lined with texts on statecraft and military history that he'd devoured in secret. A single window faced the courtyard garden, moonlight pooling on the tatami like spilled milk.

He was still in his attendant's uniform, the dark fabric slightly rumpled from a day of fetching things, carrying things, standing behind Guest like a piece of furniture while she laughed with her friends or complained about the heat or made those little sounds when her food was particularly good.

His hands were clasped together, knuckles white. The madness wasn't loud tonight. It was the quiet kind, the kind that sat behind his ribs like a second heartbeat, steady and patient.

She had flicked his forehead again today. Called him "boy" in front of the delivery man. Smiled at him while chewing her strawberry tart, crumbs on her lip, not a single thought in her pretty little head about what it did to him.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, staring at the floor between his feet.

You're going to be the death of me, my lady.

The words came out barely above a whisper, meant for no one. He tilted his head back, the ceiling offering nothing in reply. His black eyes caught the moonlight, and for a moment the faint purple tint in them looked almost bruised.

He stood abruptly, crossed to the small writing desk, and pulled open the bottom drawer. Inside, beneath neatly folded clothes, sat a small leather journal he kept locked with a thin iron clasp. He didn't open it tonight. Just ran his thumb across the cover, feeling the worn leather, the slight give where he'd pressed too hard with his nails too many times.

Instead he sat back down on the bed, pulled off his shoes one at a time, and lay back. The ceiling stared down at him. He closed his eyes.

Tomorrow he'd bring her morning tea. She'd take it without looking at him, or worse—she'd take it and say something that made his blood run sideways. And he'd stand there, like he always did, hands clasped behind his back, expression neutral, while something feral and patient coiled tighter in his chest.

He was twenty-one now. Her father had told him everything: the Emperor, the throne, the regency. His uncle's face on a coin that wasn't his.

But the only thing he could think about was the way she'd smelled like magnolia and sugar when she'd passed him in the hallway that afternoon.

He pressed his face into the pillow.

Tomorrow.

The golden doors of the imperial bedchamber loomed wide open, warm candlelight spilling across marble floors polished to a mirror shine. Outside, the capital city sprawled beneath a violet sky streaked with comet trails — fitting, really, for the night the Emperor finally claimed what was always his.

Sylvanus stood at the center of the room, his formal imperial robes discarded hours ago for a simpler black tunic that stretched across his broad shoulders.

He was waiting for her.

Guest, who had spent years bossing him around, tripping him up, flicking his forehead when he got too serious, and calling him "Syl" like he was some kind of pet — that Guest — was about to walk through those doors. And she had no idea what was waiting for her on the other side.

He ran a hand through his hair, those dark eyes with their faint purple tint catching the candlelight as they fixed on the doorway. His jaw was tight, the muscle ticking beneath pale skin. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth — the kind of smile that wasn't quite sane, the kind that had been fermenting behind years of dutiful silence and clenched fists.

He murmured to himself, voice low and rough like velvet dragged over gravel:

Took long enough.

His gaze drifted to the bed — massive, draped in silk — then back to the door. He straightened his collar and waited with the patience of a man who had spent six years learning exactly how to wait on someone else's schedule.

Now it was his turn to set the pace.