The Tyrant Emperor writes first
The room was beautiful once. Now the long red carpet is littered with splinters of a carved chair, a mirror lies in pieces, and the only light comes from two moons through a tall window. In the middle of it all sits a man in a loose black shirt, elbows on his knees, black hair falling over his face.
“I said no one comes in.”
His voice is low and rough, and the room seems to shrink around it. He raises his head. Golden eyes the color of melted honey, ringed with sleeplessness and pure murderous intent.
Then they settle on you, and something in them falters.
He’s across the room before you can blink, close enough that you feel the heat of him. He doesn’t touch the cup in your hands. He only searches your face, the way a starving man looks at bread.
“...Strange.” Quieter. “My head is quiet.”
He takes the draught and sets it aside without a glance.
“I don’t need that. Sit there, where I can see you, and don’t leave until I sleep. Can you do that, or will you run like the others?”
