Imagine being tyrant! Sylus substitute spouse.
Imagine you are not chosen. You are agreed upon.
Imagine when the person meant to be spouse, his partner disappears on the eve of their wedding, the empire does not have the luxury of mourning. Treaties wait. Armies watch. Nobles whisper. The tyrant emperor needs a spouse immediately. Not a beloved one, not even a suitable one. Just someone whose bloodline will offend no one and whose absence later will not destabilize the throne.
and Imagine you are her younger sibling. Close enough to quiet questions. Distant enough to be erased. Thus you accept without ceremony, without illusion. From the beginning, you understand the shape of this arrangement.
Imagine if she returns, you will step aside. If she does not, you will remain, until something better presents itself. You do not mistake this for sacrifice. It is simply the only move left on the board.
Imagine the way the wedding is efficient. Cold. The crown placed on your head is heavy and slightly loose, as if adjusted for another person's measurements. The court bows, but not deeply. The emperor does not look at you for long.
Imagine that night, he does not touch you. He explains nothing. You do not ask. From then on, you learn how to exist beside him.
Imagine the way he does not compare you to her. Not once. No cruel remarks. No careless slips. That restraint, you learn, is deliberate. And it hurts more than if he had spoken her name aloud.
Imagine it was in the way the corridors still seem to expect her footsteps. In the way servants hesitate before obeying you. In the way court historians leave blank spaces where her name should have been, as if the past itself is waiting. You tell yourself you are not competing with a ghost. Ghosts cannot lose.
Imagine the way emperor Sylus rules through silence and precision. When he is cruel, it is measured. When he is angry, it is contained. Executions are signed at dawn, wars decided over maps, not outbursts. You sit beside him during councils, listening, observing, learning when to speak and when silence is safer.
Imagine the way grief overtakes him when the night comes. You learn the sound of his breathing when sleep abandons him. The way his shoulders tense when he dreams. The single word he murmurs, sometimes, into the dark. Her name.
Imagine you never respond. You let him grieve openly, not because you are kind, but because you understand that asking him to stop would be pointless. This grief existed long before you. It will outlast you, too.
Imagine in some nights, he does not sleep at all. You sit with him in silence. ccasionally, he allows your presence to anchor him. Rarely, he leans into it. You mistake endurance for intimacy.
Imagine the way the assassination attempts begin quietly.
Imagine the way blades slipped between ribs during a procession. A cup exchanged by a trembling servant. Letters written in a name you do not carry, threatening a imperial spouse you were never meant to be.
Imagine each time, you recover each time. Slowly. Without spectacle. You do not bring it up unless asked. When he notices the bandages, when his gaze lingers too long on the bloodstains you failed to hide, you tell him the truth. This crown was always dangerous. You accepted it knowing the risks.
Imagine the way you could tell that the answer unsettles him. Not because it moves him, but because it removes his ability to deny what you are paying for a love that was never yours.
Imagine it was after that, that he speaks to you more. Not warmly. Not gently. But honestly.
Imagine he discusses policies. Doubts. The mechanics of ruling an empire that fears him more than it loves him. He begins to rely on your judgment. To trust your presence beside him. To leave decisions in your hands when he is absent.
and Imagine, you tell yourself this is how love begins. You are wrong, but you do not know it yet.
Imagine when your sister returns, it is almost mundane. No fanfare. No miracle. Just a body at the gates. Alive. Recognizable. Still bearing the weight of his name. The court erupts. Relief moves through the empire like breath after suffocation. The past corrects itself.
and Imagine, you feel nothing.
Imagine that night, you go to Sylus and offer everything back. The crown. The title. The chambers. Your silence.
Imagine you propose a clean transition. A narrative the people will accept. You will leave quietly. Publicly, you will be remembered kindly. Privately, you will disappear. It is the most reasonable solution.
but then Imagine, he refuses. Briefly. Sharply. Without explanation. You assume it is strategy. The empire cannot absorb another shock yet. Scandal must be managed. Timing must be perfect. You understand. You have always understood.
but then Imagine there was this hope, unwanted and unwarranted. It slips in through small, dangerous moments. The way he watches you now, as if measuring something. The way he dismisses others more quickly. The way his silence around you no longer feels edged.
Imagine you tell yourself this is what it looks like when someone learns to love again. You cling to that thought carefully, guiltily, aware that it is not yours to have.
Imagine the pain does not come all at once. It comes in a peaceful afternoon tea that you usually have with him.
Imagine the way it settles heavy, unfamiliar, just beneath your ribs. You think of all the wounds you've survived and tell yourself this is nothing you cannot endure. You lift the cup again. The porcelain rattles faintly against the saucer.
then Imagine you cough. The blood is warm when it reaches your lips. Too much of it. You lower your hand slowly, watching red bloom across your palm as if it belongs to someone else.
Imagine when you look up. He was already watching you. Not with panic. Not with guilt. Not even with hesitation. His expression does not change.
Imagine it was the same face he wears during council when a name is crossed off a list. The same calm, distant attention he gives to matters already decided. Indifference. Complete. Unmistakable.
Imagine in that moment, understanding does not strike like lightning, it settles like dust. Ah, right. So this is how he chooses to end it. Not with exile. Not with scandal. Not with a public dismissal that might invite sympathy or questions. This is quieter. Cleaner. Final. This is not fear in his eyes. It is resolution.
Imagine you had mistaken his restraint for conflict. His silence for uncertainty. His refusal to let you leave for hesitation. You see now how naive that was. He was not afraid to lose you. He was waiting for the proper moment to erase you.
Imagine the way the pain spreads, slow and thorough. Your breath shortens. You steady yourself against the table, suddenly aware of how tired your body feels, how long it has been bracing for this without knowing.
Imagine you think, distantly, that at least this way you will not have to bow. You will not have to smile. You will not have to step aside and pretend it was always enough. You were never meant to stay. You were never meant to be loved. You were only meant to hold the place warm until the rightful owner returned.
Imagine as your vision darkens, the last thing you understand, clearly, calmly is this that. You were not silenced because you were dangerous. You were silenced because you were no longer necessary. And you had known, from the moment the crown first touched your head, that this was how it would end.
[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2026°
: good night, morning shift ako mamaya. Pare parehas tayo mag dusa.
