Darian didn't stay long.
He never did, not when he looked at me like that—like he was memorizing something he wasn't allowed to keep.
At the door of my study, just before leaving for his own residence, he paused. I barely had time to lift my head before his hand cupped my cheek, warm and steady, grounding in a way that felt unfair.
Then he leaned down and kissed me.
Not my lips.
Just my cheek.
Soft, brief, intimate enough to make my thoughts short-circuit.
"Rest," he murmured. "You look like you're carrying the weight of an empire alone."
And then he was gone.
Just like that.
I stayed frozen long after the door closed, fingers hovering uselessly above the desk, cheek still warm where his lips had been. My heart was beating too fast for someone who was absolutely not supposed to be feeling this much.
Get it together.
You're supposed to be a tyrant or at least pretending to be one.
I exhaled slowly and sank back into my chair, staring at the documents spread across my desk without actually seeing them. My mind refused to cooperate. It kept drifting—backward, sideways, inward.
Back to the illusion.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't shake the image of Lioren as he truly was.
Not the cold Duke carved from shadow and fear, not the man whispered about in court or feared on the battlefield.
But the boy beneath it all.
Delicate, soft, golden-eyed, beautiful in a way that felt dangerous in a world that demanded sharp edges and iron hearts.
The vision from earlier replayed itself uninvited, slipping through my thoughts like a ghost. The way the illusion cracked. The way magic peeled away layer by layer, revealing someone who had never been allowed to exist openly.
And the pain.
Gods, the pain.
I pressed my fingers against my temple, breathing slowly, grounding myself in the present. This wasn't my memory. Not really. It was his. And yet it clung to me like it belonged there.
I felt bad for him.
Not in a distant, pitying way—but in that awful, heavy way where empathy sinks its claws in and refuses to let go.
Lioren had survived by becoming something he wasn't. By burying himself alive under expectations, fear, and someone else's cruelty. The illusion wasn't vanity. It wasn't arrogance.
It was armor.
And the worst part?
He had worn it so long that the world forgot there was anything underneath.
My chest tightened.
I was inside his body now, wearing his name, carrying his fate.
And I wasn't sure I deserved that.
My gaze drifted to the window, where the Northern sky stretched endlessly—cold, vast, unforgiving. Somewhere out there was a future already written, waiting patiently for its cue.
Two months.
The number echoed again, louder this time.
Two months until the game truly began.
Two months until the Saintess appeared.
Two months until the Emperor's attention sharpened.
Two months until every route, every flag, every bad ending started lining up like dominos.
And my eighteenth birthday.
The realization hit differently now that the initial panic had dulled.
Same age.
Same day.
The Duke of the North and I—born on the same date.
In the game, that day had never been about celebration. It was a turning point. A trigger. A narrative excuse for everyone important to arrive all at once, smiling politely while sharpening knives behind their backs.
Back then, as a player, I'd barely noticed.
Now?
Now it felt like fate mocking me.
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. If this world followed the same rules as the game, then birthdays weren't just milestones—they were checkpoints.
Moments where the story tightened its grip.
Okay. Think.
If I was going to survive this, I needed a plan. Not a perfect one—just something better than blind panic.
First rule: never reveal what I know.
No matter how tempting. No matter how close someone felt.
Darian especially.
He was perceptive. Too perceptive. Every time his eyes lingered a second too long, it felt like he was weighing me, measuring the difference between who I was and who I was supposed to be.
Second rule: stay useful.
A Duke who contributes, who listens, who appears competent is harder to discard.
Third rule: delay major events when possible.
Not stop them—just… slow them down. Buy time. Time meant options.
And finally—this one hurt to admit—
Fourth rule: don't get emotionally attached.
That rule was already failing spectacularly.
My gaze drifted back to the desk, where a sealed letter sat quietly among the papers. I'd noticed it earlier but avoided opening it, like a child pretending homework didn't exist.
The imperial seal glinted red and gold.
Right. Of course.
I sighed and reached for it, breaking the seal carefully.
The words were polite. Too polite.
A request for tea.
Tomorrow afternoon.
At the imperial residence.
The Emperor wished to speak with the Duke of the North.
My stomach dropped.
There it was.
Not the explosion. Not the catastrophe. Just the first ripple before the wave.
Tea was never just tea.
Tea was observation.
Tea was testing.
Tea was the Emperor deciding whether you were an asset… or a problem.
I folded the letter slowly, my thoughts already racing ahead. In the game, this meeting had been brief but pivotal. The Emperor hadn't done anything obvious—just smiled, asked questions, made a few comments that seemed harmless at the time.
Looking back, it had been the moment he marked Lioren.
I closed my eyes.
So it was starting earlier than I'd hoped.
I didn't panic—not outwardly. Instead, I let the fear settle into something colder, sharper.
Adapt.
If the Emperor wanted to observe me, then I would give him exactly what he expected to see. No cracks. No rebellion. No softness.
Just enough distance to remain unreadable.
I placed the letter neatly on my desk and stood, moving toward the window. Night had begun to fall, the Northern sky deepening into shades of blue and silver.
Somewhere out there, Darian was settling into his own residence, probably already planning things I didn't even know I needed. And somehow, that knowledge both comforted and unsettled me.
I rested my forehead against the cool glass.
I felt trapped.
Not just by the plot or the game—but by Lioren's life itself. By his pain. By the choices he'd been forced to make long before I ever arrived.
I didn't want to overwrite him.
I wanted to survive without erasing what remained of him.
When I finally pulled away from the window, exhaustion weighed heavy on my limbs. I changed for the night mechanically, mind still spinning even as my body slowed.
As I lay in bed, staring into the darkness, thoughts tangled together—visions, birthdays, illusions, tea invitations, Darian's warmth, the Emperor's smile.
Too much.
All of it was too much.
And yet, sleep crept in anyway, dragging me under while my mind remained half-awake, suspended between fear and determination.
Two months.
I repeated it like a vow.
Two months to survive.
Two months to change something—anything.
The illusion might have been built to protect Lioren.
But now?
I would need something stronger.
And as sleep finally claimed me, one thought lingered, heavy and unresolved:
This story had already begun.
Whether I was ready or not.