(R-18 Mature Scenes)
(Romolus POV)
The summons was routine.
Official. Proper. Carried by an attendant who bowed low and spoke with the careful neutrality required when addressing the Emperor's bride.
Antechamber. Midday. Administrative matter.
It was an excuse.
I knew it the moment the words reached me—and I allowed it anyway.
The antechamber lay between worlds: not quite court, not quite private. Its tall windows admitted the harsh noon light softened by gauze curtains, turning gold into something gentler. When I arrived, the chamber was empty save for the low table set with scrolls and seals—props for a meeting that would never truly take place.
Then the doors opened again.
Almera stepped inside.
She wore pale silk today, lighter than the ceremonial layers of recent days. The cut was modest, the drape deliberate—but the color caught the sun and held it, warming her skin to a soft glow.
The attendants withdrew. The doors closed.
