The air in the room was heavy- not with scent of death, which Princess Seraphina von Eisenberg was destined for, but with the suffocatingly sweet aroma of blooming jasmine and expensive incense.
I opened my eyes, and the first thing I saw was a ceiling fresco so intricate it made my head spin. Gilded cherubs chased each other through painted clouds, their eyes seemingly mocking me. I knew this ceiling. I had seen it in the high-definition panels of The Emperor's Shackles, the 18+ BL manhwa I had been hate-reading at 2:00 AM.
"Your Highness? You're finally woken. The physician said the sedative would wear off by noon."
A maid stood by the bed, her head bowed so low her chin touched her collarbone. She was trembling. I looked at my hands- pale, slender, and unblemished, save for the massive ruby ring that felt like a weight of blood on my finger.
I wasn't just in the story. I was Seraphina. The "Ice Rose" of the Empire. The woman who, in exactly six months, would have her throat slit by her own husband, Emperor Caelum, because she dared to poison his "beloved" servant, Lyrian.
'Great,' I thought, a hysterical bubble of laughter rising in my throat. 'I'm the plot device that gets murdered to bring the boys closer together.'
I sat up, the silk sheets sliding off my shoulders with a hiss. "Mirror," I croaked. My voice was different- velvety, sharp, and dripping with natural arrogance I didn't possess in my past life as a cubical-dwelling office worker.
When the maid brought the silver-handled glass, I gasped. The woman staring back was a masterpiece of villiany. Sharp, almond-shaped eyes the color of amethysts, hair like spun obsidian flowing down her back, and a pout that looked like it had never said "please" in its life. She was breathtaking. She was also a walking corpse.
"Your Highness," the maid whispered, "His Majesty is...he is in the Rose Garden with the new servant. He requested you do not disturb them."
The "new servant." Lyrian. The protagonist of this mess. The man with the "scent of sunshine" who would eventually enslave the hearts of the three most powerful men in the world: Caelum the Tyrant, General Valerius the Bloodthirsty, and Sir Kael the Holy Knight.
In the manhwa, Seraphina would have stormed down there in a fit of jealousy, slapped Lyrian, and sealed her fate.
I leaned back against the plush pillows, a slow, weirdly excited smile spreading across my face. If I was going to die, I wasn't going to do it as a jealousy harpy. I was going to do it as a high-tier fan.
"Disturb them?" I asked, my eyes twinkling with a light the maid clearly found terrifiying. "Why would I disturb a masterpiece? Tell the kitchen to bring me iced tea and those little lemon tarts. I'm going to watch from the balcony."
I didn't want the Emperor. I didn't want the General. I wanted to see the "Live Action" version of my favorite smutty panels from a safe, three-story-high distance while I planned my discreet escape to the countryside.
I was going to be the most supportive, invisible, and absent villianess this empire had ever seen. Or so I thought.
°~°...•~•...°~°
The lemon tarts were exquisite- crisp, butterfly crusts cradling a tart curd that zinged against my tongue. I sat on the marble veranda of the Emerald Palace, hidden behind a thick screen of climbing wisteria. From this height, the Royal Rose Garden looked like a sea of blood-red petals, and right in the center of the labyrinth stood the "main event."
There he was. Lyrian. Even from a distance, the protagonist of The Emperor's Shackles looked ethereal. He was dressed in the simple, rough-spun white linen of a palace servant, but on him, it looked like couture. His hair was the color of toasted honey, glowing in the afternoon sun, and his posture was one of trembling, fragile grace.
And standing over him, like a predator contemplating a particularly delicate lark, was Emperor Caelum von Eisenberg.
Caelum was a titan of a man. His black military tunic was buttoned to the throat, adorned with gold braiding that caught the light with every sharp movement. His hair was a stark, wintry white- a hallmark of the imperial bloodline- and his eyes, though I couldn't see them from here, were famously the color of a frozen lake.
"Ooh the height difference is even more aggressive in person," I whispered to myself, leaning dangerously far over the railing. "Caelum is easily 6'4", and Lyrian is barely hitting his shoulder. The composition! The tension! 10 out of 10 for cinematography."
I reached for my opera glasses, my heart racing. In the original manhwa, this was the scene where Seraphina was supposed to throw a flower pot from the balcony to ruin their moment. Instead, I pulled out a small leather-bound notebook I'd found in the desk. I wasn't plotting murder; I was taking notes on the "real-life" proportions of my favorite ships.
Down below, the atmosphere was thick enough to choke a horse. Caelum reached out, his gloved hand gripping Lyrian's chin, forcing the boy to look up.
"Yes! The chin-lift! A classic!" I squealed internally, kicking my feet under the table like a schoolgirl.
But then, something went wrong.
Caelum's head snapped upward. His predatory instincts, honed by years of war and paranoia, must have sensed a gaze. His icy blue eyes locked onto the wisteria balcony- straight onto me.
I froze, a lemon tart halfway to my mouth.
I should have ducked. I should have fled. But the modern fangirl in me was paralyzed by the sheer aesthetic power of his face. He was terrifyingly handsome- sharp cheekbones, a straight, cruel nose, and eyes that felt like they were pinning my soul to the marble floor.
Beside him, Lyrian also looked up. His big doe-like amber eyes filled with a different kind of fear. He expected the "Villianess" to start screaming. He expected a vase to come flying down.
Instead I did the only thing a panicked, 21st-century girl would do when caught staring at her favorite "idols."
I gave them a thumbs-up.
I realized my mistake the second I did it. I looked down at my hand, then at the Emperor's bewildered expression. The Emperor of the most powerful nation on the continent was currently staring at his "cruel" wife, who was supposed to be foaming at the mouth with rage, but was instead cheering him on with a mouth full of pastry.
Caelum's grip on Lyrian's chin loosened. His brow furrowed in genuine confusion. He didn't look angry; he looked like he had just seen a cat bark.
"Your Highness?" my maid, Elara, whispered from the doorway, her voice trembling. "Is...is everything alright? You look quite pale."
"Elara," I said, my voice cracking as I slowly retreated into the shadows of the room, "Pack the jewels. The heavy ones. We might need to leave sooner than I thought."
"But why mistress?"
"Because," I whimpered, sliding down the wall as the reality of the Emperor's gaze hit me, "I think I just broke the plot."
I had spent my entire life reading about these men, but standing in their line of sight was different. Caelum's gaze hadn't felt like the gaze of a man in love with a servant. It felt like a cold wind that had suddenly found a new direction to blow. Toward me.
I needed to get out. I needed a passport, a wig, and a very fast horse. Because if there was one thing I knew about obsessive BL leads, it was this: they hated things they couldn't understand. And right now, the "Ice Rose" of Eisenberg was the biggest mystery in the palace.
°~°...•~•...°~°