Diana walked through the grand halls of the Empress's palace, her footsteps echoing in the silence.
The golden decorations, the marble floors, the delicate tapestries—they all felt suffocating.
She had lived here for years.
And yet, it had never felt like home.
She stepped into the grand dining hall, expecting to see a beautifully arranged breakfast.
Instead, she was met with an empty table.
Diana sighed.
Of course.
There was no warm breakfast waiting for her, no servants bustling about to serve her a meal.
Once upon a time, she had thrown a fit over something like this.
"Where is my tea?" she had snapped at Elise, slamming her hand on the table. "Do I need to remind you that I am the Empress?"
Elise had looked pale, bowing deeply. "Apologies, Your Majesty. The Emperor's orders—Lady Liliana's meals are to be prepared first. We will serve you shortly."
Diana had been furious. Furious that she was always second. Furious that everyone placed Liliana first. Furious that no one cared about the Empress unless she made a scene.
And now?
Now, she only felt tired.
Diana pulled out a chair and sat down, running a hand through her silver hair. Unlike Liliana, she had never enjoyed housework, never taken an interest in running the empire, never cared for political affairs.
And so, in her foolishness, she had handed all those responsibilities over to Liliana.
The Emperor's beloved commoner consort had been more than eager to take them. After all, she was brilliant, wasn't she? Intelligent, kind, and oh-so-dutiful.
Diana had believed it too. Had believed that Liliana was truly good at what she did, that she handled everything out of pure responsibility.
How stupid.
She remembered it clearly now—Liliana's gentle voice, her carefully crafted innocence.
"Your Majesty, you must be tired of these meetings. Why don't I handle them in your place?"
And Diana, blinded by pride and arrogance, had tossed aside her duties without a second thought.
"Do as you like," she had said with a careless wave of her hand.
The ministers had smiled at Liliana. They had whispered about how capable she was. How responsible. How much better she was than Diana.
And Diana, instead of seeing the danger, had spent her time chasing after a man who had never loved her.
She deserved what had happened to her.
Diana exhaled sharply, shaking off the memories.
Perhaps it was better this way.
Let Liliana have the palace. Let her deal with the court.
Diana had more important matters to handle.
She reached for a blank parchment and dipped her quill into ink.
First priority: the dragon contract.
Diana's fingers twitched slightly as she wrote those words.
The dragon.
That bastard had turned back time for her.
But why?
In her past life, she had met him only once.
It had been at the end of everything—when she was already a warlord, when the empire was falling apart, when she had nothing left.
She had stood on the battlefield, sword dripping with blood, surrounded by corpses. And then, from the burning sky, he had descended.
A massive dragon, scales black as night, eyes burning like molten gold.
"You are late," she had said, voice hoarse.
The dragon had laughed. A deep, ancient sound.
"You are dying."
"Obviously."
He had watched her, unblinking. "Do you want to live?"
Diana had wanted to spit at him. To curse him. To tell him that she had lost everything, that there was nothing left to live for.
And yet, some foolish, desperate part of her had whispered, Yes.
The dragon had smiled then, sharp teeth gleaming.
"Then make a contract with me."
And she had.
Now, she was back.
And she had no idea what he wanted in return.
Diana's grip on the quill tightened.
She had to find him. Had to learn the truth. Had to find a way to break the contract if necessary.
For now, she set that thought aside and wrote her next task.
Lucien's tutor.
Diana's stomach twisted.
In her past life, she had ignored Lucien's education, leaving it entirely to the Emperor's chosen tutors. And what had happened?
She remembered the first time she had learned the truth.
It had been too late.
Lucien had stood before her, barely ten years old, his small hands shaking as he hid them behind his back.
"Mother," he had said softly. "I would like to change tutors."
Diana had barely looked up from the book she was reading. "Why? Is he too strict?"
Lucien had hesitated.
Then, finally, he had whispered, "He hit me today."
Diana had laughed.
She hadn't believed him.
She had thought he was just being a spoiled child.
She had ignored him.
It wasn't until much later—when she had already lost everything—that she had learned the truth.
His tutor had tormented him. Had humiliated him. Had treated him like nothing more than a tool, something to mold into a perfect imperial heir.
And Diana had done nothing to stop it.
Diana clenched her jaw.
Not this time.
She would personally choose Lucien's next tutor. Someone loyal, intelligent, and worthy of teaching her son.
She moved on to the next task.
Her own training.
Diana glanced down at her hands, her lips twisting in irritation.
Her body was pathetic. Soft, weak, useless.
She had been exiled in her past life. Forced to fend for herself. Forced to become strong.
Her master…
Diana's eye twitched.
She still remembered the first time she had met him.
He had found her half-dead in the snow, covered in wounds, barely breathing.
He had looked down at her and clicked his tongue. "What a waste of a body."
Then he had kicked her.
Kicked. Her.
Diana had been too weak to even curse him properly.
For the next few years, he had trained her—if "training" meant torturing her until she either learned or died.
And now?
Now she had a second chance.
And the first thing she was going to do when she found that bastard again…
Was punch him in the face.
*****
Diana sat in the grand dining hall, her quill tapping idly against the parchment. The morning had passed in quiet contemplation, her mind sorting through plans for the future. But as the sun climbed higher in the sky, she began to wonder—
Where was Lucien?
The boy's lessons should have ended by now. Usually, he would come to her chambers after his studies, his small feet pattering softly against the marble floors. He never asked for much. Sometimes, he simply stood at her side, quietly watching as she worked.
But today, he was late.
Diana frowned.
A cold, uneasy feeling curled in her stomach.
Something was wrong.
Just as she was about to stand and search for him, the door creaked open.
Lucien stepped inside.
Diana's breath caught.
The five-year-old looked as if he had tried to make himself smaller, his posture hunched, his head lowered. His black hair—a mirror of his father—fell over his eyes, hiding his expression. He clutched the edges of his tunic, as if trying to hold something out of sight.
Diana's eyes narrowed.
"Lucien," she called, her voice calm.
The boy flinched.
That tiny reaction made something sharp twist in Diana's chest.
"Come here," she said softly, schooling her face into neutrality.
Lucien hesitated, but then he obeyed, his small steps slow and cautious.
When he finally stood before her, she reached out and gently took his hand.
He tried to pull away.
Diana's fingers tightened, just enough to stop him.
"Lucien," she murmured, lowering her gaze to his arms.
The fabric of his sleeves was slightly wrinkled—no, not wrinkled. He had been holding them, trying to keep them in place. Trying to hide something.
Diana slowly pushed the fabric up.
Her heart turned to ice.
Bruises.
Faint, but unmistakable. Dark marks along his small wrists and forearms. The kind left by rough hands. The kind that should never, ever be on a child.
Diana inhaled sharply through her nose.
Lucien's body tensed. "Mother, I—"
She said nothing.
Carefully, methodically, she took his other arm and rolled up the sleeve. More bruises. Small, round, as if fingers had gripped him too tightly.
Diana's grip on his wrist loosened.
Not because she was releasing him.
But because her fingers were trembling.
Lucien noticed. His bright blue eyes flickered with worry. "I-It doesn't hurt that much," he whispered, as if that would make it better. "I was just— I made a mistake in my writing, so—"
"Who did this?" Diana's voice was steady. Too steady.
Lucien hesitated. He bit his lip and looked away.
That was all the confirmation she needed.
Diana's vision darkened.
Someone had dared—dared—to lay hands on her son?
Someone had hurt Lucien?
Her pulse roared in her ears, white-hot fury flooding through her veins. She could barely breathe past the sheer force of it.
She had been blind in her past life.
She had let them do this to him.
She had ignored it.
But this time?
Never.
Lucien shifted, his small hands fidgeting. "Mother, it's not—"
"It's nothing?" Diana interrupted, her voice dangerously soft.
Lucien nodded hesitantly. "I was just slow, so the instructor—"
Diana let out a slow breath.
She had to calm down.
She couldn't let Lucien see her rage—not yet.
If she let it out now, he would think she was angry at him.
And that was the last thing she wanted.
Gently, she reached out and smoothed his silver hair. "Sit," she said, gesturing to the couch by the window.
Lucien obeyed, swinging his small legs over the edge as he watched her with wary eyes.
Diana walked to a nearby cabinet, her movements slow and deliberate. She took out a small wooden box—the one filled with healing salves and bandages.
She knelt before him and carefully uncorked a jar of ointment.
"This will sting," she warned, dipping her fingers into the cool paste.
Lucien nodded and clenched his tiny fists.
Diana worked in silence, spreading the ointment over his bruises with gentle, practiced hands.
As she did, she kept her expression calm. Kept her voice quiet. Kept herself from shaking with rage.
Lucien watched her hesitantly.
"...You're not mad?" he finally asked.
Diana glanced at him. "Why would I be mad?"
Lucien swallowed. "Because I wasn't good enough."
Diana froze.
For a long moment, she said nothing.
Then she set the jar aside and took his hands in hers.
"Listen to me, Lucien," she said softly. "You are five years old. There is no such thing as 'not good enough.'"
Lucien blinked up at her, uncertain.
Diana exhaled and pulled him into her arms. His small body was warm against hers, fragile and light.
She stroked his hair. "You are my son," she murmured. "And I will never allow anyone to hurt you again."
Lucien tensed. "...Not even Father?"
Diana stiffened.
Not even the Emperor.
She smiled faintly, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Not even him."
Lucien clutched the fabric of her dress.
For the first time that day, his tiny body relaxed.
Diana stayed like that for a long while, holding him close.
Then she gently pulled away.
"You should rest," she murmured, leading him to the bed.
Lucien crawled under the covers without protest. His eyes were already drooping with exhaustion.
Diana sat beside him, watching as his small fingers curled into the sheets.
She hesitated.
Then, softly, she began to hum.
A lullaby.
One she had long forgotten. One she hadn't sung in years.
Lucien's breathing slowed.
And Diana?
Diana clenched her fists in her lap.
She had failed him in her past life.
She had let this happen.
But this time…
This time, she would burn the world before she let anyone harm her son again.