Nahila never believed in magic. Not the real kind, anyway.
She believed it was nothing more than a fairytale, a book with either a sad or a happy ending.
The only place it existed was between pages—between ink and breath, paper and dream. Her favorite escape had always been the tragic novel "To Be the Empress of a Tyrant"—a story so gut-wrenching and beautiful, she'd read it more times than she could count.
She'd cried for the Empress Altheria and mourned her fate. Screamed into her pillow at the Emperor, who misunderstood, mistreated, and ultimately executed the one person who loved him in silence.
The Empress Altheria had suffered a slow decline—born frail, burdened with a mysterious illness, and silenced by the cruel politics of a golden cage. And just when she began to soften the emperor's heart, she was accused of treason.
"If only she had one more chance…"
Those had been Nahila's last thoughts before she suddenly drifted off to sleep. And now—Now she was here.
The first thing Nahila felt was weight..Not the weight of blankets or jewelry, but the kind that sank beneath her skin. A heaviness in her limbs, her chest, her breath. She blinked slowly, eyes dry, and saw a ceiling above her she did not recognize—etched in gold, with delicate carvings of dragons curled around stars.
Not hers nor Not her world, it was something comely different. She wasn't sure how to handle it all. It was sudden, and she didn't like it when things happened suddenly.
Her throat felt parched. Her body ached in waves. She sat up slowly, every joint protesting, and pushed away silk sheets far too luxurious to belong in her small apartment. Her fingers trembled.
Then it clicked. "Oh no."
This wasn't a dream. Or at least, it wasn't her dream. This was "her story."
The very one she used to reread under dim lamps, curled beneath blankets late into the night. The story that had broken her heart, that she had cried over more times than she could count—To Be the Empress of a Tyrant.
"No," she whispered hoarsely. "This can't be real."
It was very much real..She turned toward the mirror across the room. Slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wild animal, she stood and crossed the cool marble floor. When she pulled back the sheer crimson veil that hung over the mirror, she gasped.
The face staring back at her was hauntingly beautiful. Regal. Ethereal. Not hers.
Golden-brown skin shimmered faintly with expensive oils. Long, black hair trailed down to her waist in rippling waves. And her eyes—deep, blood-red—were unmistakable. The signature of the royal bloodline.
She was the Empress now. The tragic, dying heroine of the novel. A woman married to the most dangerous man in all the known lands—Emperor Kavros, the Tyrant King.
Her heart raced.
She remembered how the story began: with the Empress gravely ill, barely able to move, too weak to speak. It was in this moment that the Emperor—stone-hearted, war-hardened—came to visit her. One of the only times he showed her something akin to *concern*. It wasn't love. It was curiosity, confusion, maybe even guilt. Though guilt was barely ever a thing for Kavros, he was cold as ic,e and no one coulbreak throughgh his exterior..Not even his wife...
She had only this moment to change everything. And yet, her memory of the book's politics, betrayals, and death traps was foggy. She knew the broad strokes, but the finer threads—who was secretly loyal, who plotted her downfall, which servant leaked which letter—had all blurred in her mind. It had been years since she last read it. And now she had to survive it.
The large double doors creaked open. Her blood turned to ice.
Kavros entered like a storm given human form—broad-shouldered, towering, and wrapped in dark robes that glinted with silver embroidery. A sword hung at his hip, though did not need of it. The mere weight of his gaze was enough to kill.
He paused at the threshold, staring at her. Their eyes met...In the story, the Empress never looked him in the eyes. She was always too scared. Too small. Too broken.
But Nahila wasn't her. Not entirely .So she stared bac k.For a long moment, the room was silent.
"You're awake,Altheria" he said, voice low and unreadable.
"I am," she replied softly, her voice still weak but steady. "You came."
Kavros's gaze darkened, as if weighing her words, her tone, her intent. He moved closer, boots thudding softly on the marble, and sat on the edge of her bed without asking.
"I expected you to be unconscious for another day," he said. "Your fever was... persistent."
She nodded. "I remember... heat. And voices."
"You cried out," he murmured. "For someone."
Did I? Nahila blinked. Maybe it was her real-world s, lf—calling for a life now gone.
He reached out. For one strange, suspended second, she thought he might touch her cheek. But instead, he plucked a strand of her hair and rolled it between his fingers. A gesture oddly intimate, almost absent-minded.
"You seem... different, Are you sure you're feeling better? It seemed sudden if you ask me," he said at last.
Nahila's breath caught.
"This is it," she thought. "This is the moment when he starts to question her. When he begins to suspect that something iabouthis wife is no longer the same.
"I suppose near-death changes a person," she offered carefully. "It makes you... see more clearly."
His jaw twitched.
"You speak with strength, despite barely being able to stand. You stare like a wolf, not a lamb. And you no longer flinch when I enter the room." He paused. "You used to flinch just by me touching you softly... ."
She swallowed.
"I suppose I'm trying not to die," she said with a faint, broken smile. "Not just from the fever. Even with touch, you make me fall sick, Lord Kavros."
His eyes narrowed at that.
Then, just as quickly as he had appeared, Kavros rose from the bed.
"Rest," he ordered. "You'll need strength soon. There will be whispers. Courtiers smell change like blood."
She nodded weakly, watching as he walked to the door.
Before leaving, he turned one last time.
"I don't know what you're playing at," he said quietly. "But I don't like sudden change, butit'ss good to see you bett..."
Then he was gone.
Nahila let out the breath she'd been holding and collapsed against the pillows, heart pounding in her ears.
"He noticed."
Her hands curled into the sheets. The game had begun. And she was already on the board .But this time, she wasn't going to be a tragic heroine.
This time, the Empress would rewrite her ending.
By mid-morning, her body still ached like something had tried to hollow her out. But with the help of the two maids assigned to her—meek-eyed girls whose silence said more than their words—Nahila was bathed, perfumed, and dressed in imperial regalia.
The gown was far heavier than it appeared: a deep crimson hue embroidered with thread-of-gold roses curling like fire over her bodice, paired with a sheer obsidian veil that trailed behind her like smoke. Every movement reminded her she was now someone else. Someone powerful. Someone hunted.
As the golden doors of the Imperial Audience Hall opened before her, every whisper fell to silence.
Nobles lined the marbled floors in two perfect rows, each bowing low—not to her, but to the weight of the crown she wore. Their robes shimmered, their jewelry sparkled, but their eyes were sharp and observant. Hungry.
"Ah," Nahila thought. Here they are, the ones who watched her die by the hands on Kravos.
She held her chin high, remembering what the Empress was supposed to be: a silent ornament,and a symbol of beauty. A sickly wife who rarely spoke at court and never challenged the status quo.
But she was no longer that woman. And from the way they watched her glide forward—alive, eyes gleaming, back straight—they noticed.
At the end of the hall, Emperor Kavros stood on the obsidian throne dais. Regal, immovable. Dressed in black-on-black armor with silver sigils of dragons curling over his chestplate, he exuded command. He didn't stand as she approached—he never did—but his gaze pinned her like a dagger through silk.
When she bowed, he raised a single hand.
"You may rise, Empress,Altheria" he said. The chamber was so quiet that his voice cut through it like thunder.
She did and he watched. Every step she took, every breath, every shift in her expression. Wary,but not yet hostile.
"Is Her Majesty recovered?" one of the lords dared to ask, a man in robes of emerald green with a perpetual sneer twisted into his mouth. Lord Varion, if she remembered correctly. A snake of a man who'd advised the Emperor to take on concubines once the Empress had grown too sickly to serve her purpose.
"I am alive," Nahila said smoothly. "More than can be said of some men's tact."
A few muffled gasps. A few heads turned.
Varion's nostrils flared, but he bowed.
Kavros's eyes darkened slightly. Not with anger—but something colder. Interest.
Nahila scanned the court with care. There—Lady Imara, her so-called confidante, was clutching her fan too tightly. The High Priest was watching her with mild disdain. And in the far shadows behind the pillars, stood General Kael—one of the few who might be loyal, but had always been distant from the Empress.
She had to thread this needle carefully. Speak too much, she would be called changed. Speak too little, they would see her as weak. Every word now was a test. Every breath, a trap. Nahlia knew she had to rewrite
So she offered a gracious smile and walked the length of the court until she stood at Kavros's side—not behind him, as expected.
Kavros turned his head a fraction, regarding her.
"You have something to say before the court?" he asked softly.
"I do," she replied, her voice calm and clear. "Let them know that their Empress will not fade like a forgotten ghost in the garden. I will be attending the next tribunal of state affairs and reviewing the grain tariffs from the Western Provinces."
That stirred a real murmur.
Altheria had never attended such things before. Never dared insert herself into politics. She was always sick, bedridden for days on end.
Kavros gave no outward reaction. But one of his fingers tapped once on the armrest of his throne. A tell. She'd startled him—just enough to make him pay attention.
Then, his lips moved.
"Very well," he said. "Let it be done."
The court bowed. But this time, slower. Hesitant.
Nahila turned slightly toward him.
"Your Majesty," she said gently, "do let me know if I overstep again."
Kavros looked down at her, and for the first time, she saw a flicker of amusement behind his cold eyes.
"You're no longer overstepping," he said. "You're dancing on a blade."
She met his gaze, steady and unwavering. "Then I suppose I'd best learn how to keep my balance."
He stared for a long moment. Then, he smiled—barely.
And in that moment, she realized something deeper.
The Tyrant was watching. And for the first time, perhaps, he was curious.