The scent of jasmine lingered faintly in the banquet hall, intermingling with the heavier perfume of power and pretense. Velvet drapes muffled the murmurs of lords and spies alike, and crystal goblets shimmered with red wine poured like blood across a battlefield.
Cassian raised his glass, eyes sweeping over the crowd. A toast to alliances, to peace forged in the fires of rebellion, to unity held together by silk and steel. Riven stood at his side, his hand a whisper against Cassian's lower back—a silent support, a subtle claim.
They drank.
Cassian's fingers trembled the moment the wine touched his tongue.
The tremor was slight—barely perceptible to anyone save Riven—but it was followed by a tightening in his throat, a heat blooming beneath his skin like flame licking bone.
"Cass?" Riven's voice was quiet but sharp. His arm steadied him as Cassian staggered.
A goblet slipped from the emperor's hand. Crimson splashed across the marble floor like a prophecy fulfilled.
Panic rippled outward in concentric circles.
---
The imperial healer's chambers were choked with incense and quiet dread.
Cassian lay sprawled on the grand bed, his breath shallow, skin slick with sweat. The poison was slow—meant to cripple, not to kill outright. Meant to give time.
Riven stood at the window, fists clenched behind his back. The city burned beneath his gaze—not with fire, but with tension, with ambition unmasked. The council was already calling for an emergency assembly.
Cassian turned his head weakly. "They'll move against you. Against us."
"Let them try," Riven whispered, lips brushing Cassian's forehead. "I'll gut them in your name."
The kiss lingered—soft, reverent, aching.
---
Riven took the throne three hours later.
The council chamber buzzed with barely veiled hostility. The nobles bowed, but their eyes glittered with challenge.
He wore no crown. He needed none.
His voice rang through the chamber, a blade wrapped in silk. "I speak with the emperor's authority. Until he rises, I rule."
A murmur of discontent.
One lord dared to rise. "A consort is not—"
Riven was at his throat before the man could finish. The dagger was small, thin, and wickedly curved.
"I am not just a consort," he hissed, eyes wild with fury. "I am the reason your head still rests on your neck."
He did not kill him.
But the line was drawn.
---
That night, power whispered in Riven's veins like a drug.
He stood on the balcony, overlooking the empire Cassian had carved with blood. It pulsed below him, trembling with the uncertainty of its future.
A knock at the door. He did not turn.
"Come."
It was Kaelen—the general whose loyalty had always felt half-wrapped in shadows. "The council is restless. They want blood."
Riven laughed softly. "Then I'll give them mine. Or theirs."
Kaelen stepped closer. Too close.
His hand brushed Riven's arm, lingering. "You could have more than this, Riven. You could have everything."
Riven turned slowly, and the moment stretched taut between them. There was a time—long ago—when Kaelen had been a temptation. A mistake. An almost.
"And betray him?" Riven said, voice sharp. "You know nothing of what we are."
"I know what power does. And I know how lonely it is at the top."
Riven didn't flinch when Kaelen pressed in—closer, mouth a breath from his. The air crackled.
For a heartbeat, Riven was still.
Then he shoved Kaelen back—hard.
"Tell the council," he said coldly, "that the empire does not kneel to cowards—or to traitors who whisper sweet lies."
Kaelen's eyes burned with something darker. He bowed low.
And left.
---
Later, Riven returned to Cassian's bedside.
He undressed slowly, slipping beneath the silken sheets with reverence.
Cassian stirred, barely.
"I almost fell," Riven whispered, curling against him. "But I didn't. I won't. Not now. Not ever."
Cassian's hand found his in the dark, weak but steady.
The empire could burn.
But this—this would endure.