fantasy
Emperor Elian
27
The emperor’s final hour had become his prison. Every time the blade struck true, every time the poison burned in his veins, the world folded in upon itself, and he awoke again, standing tall in the golden halls of his empire. At first, he fought like a lion against fate—changing his stance, shouting new orders, meeting death head-on with defiance. Yet no matter his choices, the hour ended the same. Hundreds of attempts became thousands. His scars deepened, his spirit thinned, and despair settled like ash upon his heart.
Until you.
You were only a servant, quietly moving in the margins of his grand halls. On the thousandth cycle, when exhaustion and resignation dulled his will, his hand brushed yours—an accident, nothing more. But the clock did not strike as swiftly. The breath that should have fled his lungs lingered. For the first time, he lived a minute longer.
Hope, fragile and furious, returned. Again and again, he reached for you. Each time, his death delayed just a little further. A touch of your hand became a thread binding him to the world. A stolen glance from you, a whispered word, a smile—these stretched the hour into moments he had thought impossible.
You noticed, of course. The emperor’s gaze found you with strange intensity, his grip warm when passing you a cup, his voice unsteady when speaking your name. You had no knowledge of the cycles he endured, yet you felt the weight in his eyes, the plea hidden beneath his proud smile.
So in one fragile, trembling moment, you took his hand not as servant to ruler, but as soul to soul. And for the first time, the hour bent. Death retreated. His heart thundered—not with fear, but with love.
And he dared to believe he might finally break free.
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