I woke up because my throat was on fire.
Not the poetic kind. Not nerves. Not fear.
Real, burning pain—like someone had poured hot metal down my neck and left it there.
I sucked in air and immediately regretted it. My chest seized, lungs refusing to cooperate. The world tilted, spun, then slammed back into place as I rolled onto my side, gagging.
Silk sheets tangled around my legs.
Silk.
That single detail didn't belong.
I forced my eyes open.
The ceiling above me was carved stone—dragons and suns and crowns, all locked in eternal combat. Gold leaf traced the edges, cracked with age. Candles burned in iron sconces, their smoke thick and sweet.
This wasn't my bedroom.
This wasn't my world.
Memory hit me all at once, violent and foreign.
A massive hall filled with nobles dressed like peacocks. Knees bent. Heads lowered. Trumpets screaming triumph. A crown pressed onto my head—too heavy, too cold. Cheers echoing like thunder while my stomach twisted in dread that wasn't mine.
Then wine.
Sweet.
Bitter.
Darkness.
I clenched my jaw, fighting another wave of nausea. My body felt wrong—lighter, weaker, like it had been hollowed out and poorly patched together.
"Your Majesty!"
The voice snapped through the fog.
I turned my head.
Three men stood near my bed.
They didn't kneel.
The one closest to me wore dark blue robes stitched with silver thread. His posture was relaxed, practiced. He had the look of a man who hadn't bowed sincerely in years.
Chancellor Valen Kross.
I didn't know his name from study or history.
I knew it because the memories in this body hated him.
To his right stood a man in armor—actual armor—inside the imperial bedchamber. Broad shoulders. Scarred face. His hand rested on his sword as if it belonged there.
General Marcus Hale.
The third man sat calmly by the window, sunlight catching the gold ring on his finger. His expression was warm, almost kind.
High Priest Edrin.
Power. Military. Faith.
All watching me.
All waiting.
"Your Majesty," the chancellor said smoothly, "you collapsed after the coronation banquet. The day was… overwhelming."
I tried to speak.
My voice came out hoarse, cracked. "Water."
The word scraped my throat raw.
A servant moved immediately, stepping forward with a silver cup. His hands shook.
Silver.
My eyes locked onto it.
Something deep inside me—instinct or memory—screamed.
Poison.
I hesitated.
Just long enough.
The chancellor noticed. Of course he did.
"Is something wrong, Your Majesty?" he asked, tone gentle.
I swallowed, forcing my breathing to steady. I let my shoulders slump, my gaze drop. I let fear show.
"I… I feel strange," I whispered. "Please. Test it."
The room went quiet.
The servant froze, eyes flicking toward Chancellor Kross for permission.
That told me everything.
The general snorted softly, amused. "Paranoid already?"
I flinched at the sound, shrinking back against the pillows. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that."
I hated myself for how convincing it felt.
Kross smiled, indulgent. "Caution is understandable."
He gestured lazily.
The servant turned—not toward me, but toward a small white bird in a golden cage near the window. A gift, I realized dimly. Something ceremonial.
A drop of water fell into the bird's dish.
We waited.
The bird drank.
Its body stiffened.
It collapsed without a sound.
Dead.
No one reacted.
No shouting. No shock. No urgency.
The general clicked his tongue. "Shame. Those birds are expensive."
The priest murmured a quiet prayer—not looking at me, but at the corpse in the cage.
The chancellor sighed, as though inconvenienced. "It appears someone made a grave error."
Error.
I stared at the bird, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.
This wasn't an attempt.
This was a confirmation.
They hadn't expected me to wake up.
They were watching to see what I would do now that I had.
Tears blurred my vision. Real ones. Not forced.
"I almost died," I said softly.
No one contradicted me.
General Hale finally bowed—barely. "Your safety will be reinforced, Your Majesty."
A promise that meant nothing.
Kross nodded. "We will handle this quietly. The court must not panic."
The priest smiled at me, eyes bright. "The gods have spared you. You should be grateful."
Grateful.
My hands clenched under the sheets.
"My mother," I said suddenly. "I want to see her."
For the first time, Kross hesitated.
"The Empress Dowager is resting," he replied. "Today was… taxing."
Of course it was.
She had watched her son be crowned—and almost buried.
I nodded obediently. "Then I will rest too."
They seemed satisfied with that.
One by one, they left.
Guards replaced them. Servants avoided my gaze. The room felt colder once the door closed.
I lay there staring at the ceiling, my body trembling now that the danger had passed—temporarily.
The memories settled fully into place.
This emperor had no allies.
No loyal army.
No trusted ministers.
Even his own mother wanted him gone.
I laughed softly, then stopped when it hurt too much.
Slowly, I forced myself out of bed. My legs shook under my weight. The marble floor was freezing.
I stood before a bronze mirror.
A young man stared back at me. Pale. Thin. Dark eyes rimmed with exhaustion and fear.
An emperor in name.
A corpse in waiting.
I pressed my palm against the glass.
"This throne," I whispered, voice barely steady, "is a death sentence."
And if I wanted to live—
I would have to become far more dangerous than they believed.
Behind the walls of the palace, I could already feel it.
Eyes watching.
Knives being sharpened.
Smiles being prepared.
Everyone wanted me dead.