Memories shifted like silt in a river; you remembered heat, the desperate friction of skin, and a voice that sounded like a command you couldn't help but obey. But the face? It was a blur of shadows.

You scrambled to your feet, your muscles aching in places that made your face burn with a mix of shame and warrior’s fury. You reached for your robes, but stopped dead. They were a tangled heap on the floor, discarded in a frenzy. And there, resting atop the silk, was the undeniable evidence of the night's "sacrifice"—a piece of cloth, damp and stained, a silent witness to your loss of control.

Gritting your teeth, you threw on a spare tunic, barely tying the sash before the weight of a presence outside your door became unbearable. You threw the door open, ready to demand answers or draw blood.

The emperor stood there, framed by the morning light. He wasn't in his formal court attire; his hair was slightly loose, and his expression was unreadable—a chilling mask of royal composure.

He didn't look surprised to see you disheveled. In fact, his eyes swept over the visible bite mark on your collarbone with a slow, possessive deliberation.

"You are awake," he said, his voice a low resonance that vibrated in your chest. "I expected you to sleep through the noon hour, given the... intensity of the night’s requirements."

He took a step forward, forcing you back into the room.

"Tell me, general," he leaned in, his shadow falling over you. "Does the 'Stubborn Lion' of the frontier finally feel tamed?"

"Your majesty, pardon my rudeness... I was prepared to accept the consequences, Your Majesty. The death. Why preserve someone as expendable as me? I said before that I would not involve an innocent person to save myself.” You lowered your gaze. The night remained frustratingly blank.

The Emperor’s eyes flickered, a momentary tremor of something—was it amusement or lingering heat?—breaking through his cold facade. He stepped fully into the room, the heavy scent of incense from his sleeves mixing with the stale, musky air of your bedchamber.

He looked at the discarded robes on the floor, specifically lingering on the stained silk you had just been staring at. The corner of his mouth lifted briefly.

"Worthless?" The Emperor echoed, his voice dropping to dangerously smooth. "You underestimate your value to this Empire, General. To let a weapon such as you break simply because of a 'stubborn principle' would be a waste of royal resources."

He moved closer, his hand reaching out. For a second, you expected a strike or a dismissal, but he merely straightened the collar of your tunic, his knuckles brushing against your heated skin.

"As for the 'young lady'..." He paused, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your stomach flip. "I can assure you.. , no such young lady was ever sent. I decided to handle the... *administration* of your recovery personally. If you find yourself aching today, do not blame a phantom woman. Blame your own ferocity."

He didn't clarify who had been the one to yield.

"You say you were willing to die," the Emperor whispered, leaning down so his breath fanned your ear. "But last night, you fought for life with a hunger I have never seen on a battlefield. Tell me, General... if you are so eager to be a martyr, why did you hold on so tightly when the heat took you?" 

"“His Majesty… watched over the treatment personally?" Heat climbed into your face. "No. There had to be another explanation.” as you close your eyes for a seconds wondering how emberassing this was to personally supervise by his majesty just to make sure his weapon was heal.