The Imperial Palace of Cyrillic was nothing like Barmouth's sunlit marble halls.
Here, the corridors stretched endlessly, built from cold black stone veined with silver. The ceilings soared so high that her voice, if she dared to speak, would be swallowed before it reached the rafters. The guards stood like statues, armored in steel that gleamed under torchlight. Servants passed silently, bowing low, their faces unreadable.
It was a palace of discipline, of silence, of control.
It was a cage.
And now, it was her home.
Himeka's attendants from Barmouth had been dismissed upon arrival, replaced by Cyrillic's handmaidens—women who served with precision but little warmth. They showed her the Empress's chambers: vast, luxurious, with velvet curtains and gilded mirrors, the kind of room fit for a goddess.
But Himeka felt no comfort.
She sat on the edge of the massive bed, her fingers curling around the embroidered sheets. The silence pressed down on her until it felt suffocating.
This is it… I am truly alone now.
Her thoughts turned inevitably toward him—her new husband, the Emperor. She had seen his face only twice: once at the altar, and once beside her at the feast. Both times, he had been utterly expressionless, his crimson eyes like frozen fire.
She had expected anger. Cruelty. Maybe even violence. After all, wasn't this marriage born from conquest?
But instead, he had done nothing.
He had not touched her.
He had not spoken to her.
He had not even looked at her.
It was as if she did not exist.
The days passed in much the same manner.
At meals, they sat side by side at the high table. The nobles and ministers spoke amongst themselves, but the Emperor never once directed a word to Himeka. His gaze remained forward, his posture perfect, his presence commanding even in silence.
At night, when the palace quieted, Himeka returned to the shared imperial chamber. The bed was large enough for four people, yet the Emperor always remained on his side, lying down without a sound.
The first night, she had waited, stiff with dread, for his hand to reach for her. It never did.
The second night, she had lain awake, expecting his cold voice to demand something of her. It never came.
By the third night, she realized—he wasn't going to touch her at all.
For a woman who had resigned herself to a cruel fate, the realization was bewildering.
"Why…?" she whispered to herself one night, staring at his sleeping form in the moonlight. His face, even at rest, was unreadable—neither peaceful nor troubled, simply blank.
He was so close, yet he felt impossibly distant.
Himeka began to wander the palace gardens during the day. The sprawling grounds were meticulously kept, with dark evergreens and ponds that mirrored the gray skies. She noticed how the servants never laughed, how the nobles carried themselves with stiff dignity, how even the birds seemed to sing less here than in Barmouth.
The empire was efficient. Immaculate. Strong.
But it lacked warmth.
And she, a daughter of a kingdom where festivals filled the streets and laughter spilled from taverns, felt the absence keenly.
One afternoon, she paused by a frozen fountain, her breath misting in the cold air. The loneliness gnawed at her. Her father had promised she would grow used to life here. That peace would make the sacrifice worth it.
But had he considered what it meant for her, to live beside a man who might as well be a statue?
That evening, she tried to speak to him.
She entered their chamber where he sat at the desk, signing documents by candlelight. His white hair glowed faintly in the flickering flame.
She gathered her courage, clutching the folds of her gown. "Your Majesty…"
No response. His quill scratched steadily across the parchment.
"I…" Her voice faltered, but she forced herself to continue. "I only wished to say… I am grateful for the peace between our kingdoms."
Still nothing.
Her heart thudded painfully.
He didn't even look at her.
Finally, after a silence that stretched far too long, he set down his quill. For the briefest moment, she thought he would speak.
Instead, he simply blew out the candle, rose, and walked past her to the bed.
Without a word.
Without a glance.
Himeka stood rooted in place, her throat tight.
It was not cruelty. It was not anger. It was worse.
It was indifference.
That night, as she lay on her side of the bed, she stared at the ceiling, wide awake. The soft rhythm of his breathing reached her from beside, steady and calm, like he was utterly unaffected by her presence.
Her fingers curled around the blanket.
She had expected chains. She had expected to be used and discarded. But this? This strange, suffocating emptiness?
It was more unbearable than anything else.
And so, on her second week in Cyrillic, Himeka realized:
Her husband, the Emperor, did not hate her.
Nor did he love her.
He simply did not care.
And that, somehow, hurt the most.
End of Chapter 2