The heavy chains around Elara's wrists clinked with every step, a cruel reminder of how far she had fallen. Just days ago, she had been nothing more than a girl hiding in the shadows, unknown and unseen. But now—now she was a prisoner, dragged before the most feared ruler in the empire.
The grand doors of the imperial throne room loomed ahead, carved with symbols of conquest and war. Guards flanked her, their grips firm as they shoved her forward. She didn't resist.
There was no point.
Ryan Calderon.
The name alone carried weight—a name whispered in both prayers and curses. He was the emperor who had crushed rebellions with his bare hands, the man whose mere presence commanded absolute obedience.
"I shouldn't be here," Elara thought, trying to steady her breath. No one should have known I existed.
Yet, somehow, he did.
The throne room stretched before her, vast and impossibly grand. Black banners lined the walls, each bearing the Calderon sigil—a crimson dragon entwined around a golden sword. At the far end sat him.
Ryan Calderon was nothing like the frail, pampered rulers of other kingdoms. He wore dark armor, fitted leather gloves, and a sword strapped to his hip—as if he were ready for war even in his own palace. His storm-gray eyes locked onto her the moment she entered, sharp and calculating.
Elara forced herself to hold his gaze. She would not cower.
The guards pushed her to her knees before the throne. One of them stepped forward.
"Your Majesty," the man announced. "We found her in the western provinces, just as you predicted."
Ryan said nothing at first. He simply leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand as he studied her. The silence stretched long enough to suffocate.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"You should not exist."
Elara's heart pounded, but she kept her expression neutral. "I don't know what you mean."
Ryan's lips curved slightly—not quite a smile, more like a hunter amused by his prey's defiance. He stood, descending the steps with slow, deliberate strides.
When he reached her, he crouched down, tilting her chin up with two fingers. His touch was firm, his calloused hands a stark contrast to the cold precision in his gaze.
"You lie," he murmured. "I can see it in your eyes."
Elara swallowed hard. "If you think I'm a threat, then why haven't you killed me already?"
Ryan tilted his head, considering her words. Then, he leaned in just enough that only she could hear his next words.
"Because I don't kill ghosts."
A chill ran down Elara's spine. What did he mean?
She wasn't a ghost—she was real, flesh and blood. But as Ryan stood and turned back toward his throne, something inside her whispered that he knew more about her than she did herself.
And that terrified her.
A storm was coming.
And Elara was at the center of it.