Chapter 124

The backrest of the imperial throne rose to a height nearly equal to that of a grown man standing upright, an extravagance so striking it seemed designed to dwarf whoever approached it. Its width was just as imposing. The whole of it was wrapped in crimson velvet embroidered with ornamental filigree so elaborate it seemed to shimmer under the chamber’s lights. The backrest, the sweeping armrests, even the intricately carved legs supporting the seat—each detail was sculpted entirely from solid gold.

A staggering number of steps separated the floor from the dais on which the throne rested, raising the seat so far above the hall that looking up at it strained the neck. Yet even from that distance, Elena could make out the figure occupying it with humiliating ease.

The man seated there possessed hair as black as pitch, and eyes tinged with gold—exactly like Kennard’s. But the resemblance ended there. His stature and build were smaller than Kennard’s, and the aura he exuded differed so drastically it felt almost blasphemous to compare them.

His cravat was so extravagantly plumed it resembled the full spread of a peacock’s tail, overflowing until one wondered how he endured the weight without suffocating. His sleeves billowed wider than the skirts of Elena’s own dress, and his golden silk ceremonial coat glittered with gemstones stitched so densely they mimicked embroidery. In his hand he held a long scepter whose head displayed a circular crest borne aloft by three wolves sculpted in gold.

If anyone tried to force such attire onto Kennard, Elena could imagine him erupting into fury, bellowing in outrage before tearing every scrap of fabric apart.

The image flashed so vividly before her that her stomach clenched, her breath catching in a tight, painful knot.

“Your Imperial Majesty.”

Marten’s voice snapped her brutally back to the present. She blinked through the blur of tears clouding her vision, pulling her gaze from the Emperor and lowering it just enough to see Marten fall to one knee, head bowed. The soldiers who had accompanied them followed suit, foreheads nearly touching the floor.

Elena stood frozen like a misplaced statue, her mind struggling to catch up.

“Show proper respect to His Imperial Majesty,” snapped the soldier who had dragged her here. He seized her arm, jerking her down.

Her knees slammed against the cold marble.

“Ah—!”

A jolt of pain shot up her legs so sharply her entire body locked. She caught herself with both palms against the floor, forcing the pained groan clawing up her throat back down where it burned.

“So Kennard chose a woman with no sense of decorum as his bride, did he?”

The Emperor let out a laugh—light, incredulous, edged with disdain. Something in the tone, faint and fleeting, echoed Kennard’s voice, but twisted.

Elena clenched her eyes shut, lowering her head deeper.

“Elena Rosou. Lift your head.”

He issued the command as though displeased by even the sight of her posture.

She swallowed hard. Her lips trembled as she raised her head, slowly, deliberately, finally meeting the Emperor’s gaze.

“A familiar expression,” he murmured. “Of course you know who I am. How could you not?”

He leaned back into the throne, sinking into its red velvet depths. Resting his cheek against one hand, he tapped idly at his own chin with a finger, examining her as though she were livestock being appraised.

Elena felt a ripple of revulsion crawl up her spine. His gold-tinted eyes resembled Kennard’s, yes—but the reaction they provoked in her body was entirely, violently different.

The Emperor rose. His movements were slow, unhurried, the soft rustle of his opulent robes somehow louder than the echoing hall itself. As he descended the stairs step by deliberate step, Elena’s muscles tightened, a cold rigidity settling into every fiber. This wasn’t the breathless awe she once felt before Kennard—when his pheromones crushed down on her senses, when looking into his eyes made the edges of reality blur, made her feel as if she might dissolve into some other realm entirely. That dizzying, fearful, inescapable pull.

No—her body recoiled from the Emperor instinctively, rejecting him before her mind could rationalize why.

He stopped right before her. Lowering himself into a crouch, he touched a knee to the floor the way a predator might lower itself to inspect prey. His gloved fingers caught the point of her chin, lifting it abruptly.

“So you are Kennard’s mate.”

His eyes roamed her features, hunting for something he seemed determined to find. His free hand drifted up to sweep a lock of her hair aside. The moment his fingers brushed her temple, every hair on her body stood on end.

Elena jerked her head away.

“How bold,” he murmured, his voice flattening. “To recoil from me.”

He wrenched her chin back, forcing her to meet his gaze. The displeasure etched across his face sharpened.

“How curious. How very curious indeed. How could that boy have imprinted on a woman like you? A pureblood of the Black Wolves forgetting his lineage so thoroughly…?”

He tilted his head, genuinely baffled. Then his fingers crept up again, twisting through a strand of her red hair.

“Red hair and gray eyes… perhaps your ability made him mistake you for something else. Yes, that must be it.”

Elena’s breath hitched. She had only recently learned that Kennard had imprinted on her—and even now she struggled to believe it. But what ability did she supposedly possess? What nonsense was this?

“I… I have no such ability,” she whispered, her voice scraping against the tightness in her throat.

“A lie,” the Emperor said immediately. “Or perhaps, as you claim, you erased your own memories?”

He glanced over his shoulder.

And only then did Elena see him.

A figure stood beside the throne—someone she hadn’t noticed at all until this moment, as if he had materialized from the shadows themselves. He had remained so perfectly still it was as though he were part of the architecture.

A long silver cloak trailed to the floor behind him. A hood, lowered almost to the tip of his nose, concealed his face. Around his neck hung a heavy chain, its pendant an unidentifiable, twisted shape that caught the dim light.

Elena stared so wide her eyes burned. Her heart thudded painfully. She couldn’t breathe.

Because she recognized him.

Or rather—she recognized the formless black presence that had come for her in Monte Raffiano. The hollow shape that had stood outside her window. The thing that had been neither man nor beast.

This was that presence. This man. This impossible figure.

“Azis?”

The Emperor’s voice prodded him for an answer.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Azis dipped his head.

Elena’s skin prickled violently. His voice—she knew that voice. Her earlier suspicion solidified into certainty.

“You… you’re…” Her words dissolved. Her voice shook too much to finish.

Marten had arranged for him to visit her. That was how he’d reached her estate—but knowing that did nothing to ease the nauseating tremor running through her body now that she saw him in flesh and form.

It felt like déjà vu—no, like a nightmare half-remembered. She blinked several times. Each time she opened her eyes, Azis’s figure split, doubled, then merged again, as if his soul lagged behind his body.

“So this woman truly is Rosou’s daughter?” the Emperor asked, his voice drifting down from somewhere above her.

Rosou?

Elena tore her gaze from Azis and looked at the Emperor.

“You… you knew my father?”

The Emperor’s eyes narrowed. The muscles under his eyes tensed; the corner of his lip twitched as though choosing between responses.

Then he erupted into laughter.

It wasn’t a chuckle. It wasn’t even a bark.

It was a shrill, hysterical peal of mirth that bent him double, his hand clutching his stomach, tears collecting at the corners of his golden eyes. The sound ricocheted through the vast chamber, bouncing back in distorted echoes that made the room feel smaller, tighter, inescapable.

And just as abruptly as it began, it stopped.

Silence dropped heavy and complete. Even the fading echoes seemed to vanish.

The Emperor wiped the moisture from his eye with one lazy swipe of a finger. Then, without warning, he reached behind Elena’s head—his hand fisting violently in her hair.

“Ah!”

Pain ripped across her scalp. Elena cried out, her head yanked back so forcefully her vision blurred. She grabbed at his wrist with both hands, trying to pry him loose, but the harder she struggled, the tighter he pulled.

Strands tore free from her scalp in sharp, stinging bursts.

“Marten.”

The Emperor’s voice carried amusement again—amusement at her agony. As Elena’s eyes swam, she forced her gaze sideways.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Marten rose from one knee, turning toward the throne. For a fleeting second their eyes met, but he averted his gaze immediately, focusing solely on the Emperor.

“Bring me your sword.”

The Emperor extended his arm, curling two fingers in a beckoning gesture.

Marten’s eyebrows twitched. “My sword, Your Majesty…?” His gaze flicked, barely, to Elena dangling in the Emperor’s grasp.

“Did you not hear me?” the Emperor snapped, fury bursting to the surface. “Must I repeat myself?”

Marten hesitated only a breath longer before drawing his blade. He stepped forward in stiff procession until he was close enough to offer the sword hilt-first, rotating the blade toward himself before surrendering it.

The Emperor scoffed, snatching it without ceremony.

“You, of all people, should know your father best,” he muttered—and jerked Elena’s head back even farther.

The cold kiss of steel touched her neck.

“Hh—!” Elena’s breath broke. The bite of the blade parted her skin, shallow but slicing clean. Heat trickled down her throat—a thin, steady line of blood beading and sliding along her collarbone.

“You said her blood is required?”

“Yes,” Azis answered, his voice closer now—much closer. He had stepped behind her, though she hadn’t heard him move at all.

Elena’s pulse surged in her ears. Slowly, terrified, she lifted her eyes just enough to glimpse him beneath the hood.

And the moment Azis’s face came into view, fully exposed under the shadowed fold of his cloak, Elena gasped—sharp, breathless—for reasons she could not put into words. The air collapsed in her lungs.

Because now she understood.

And nothing in the world could have prepared her for the face she saw.