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Qian Mingzhe has reigned far longer than any tyrant should; the throne, once belonging to his brother, is covered in red from his past conquests. One of which was his brother himself.
He reclines on his decadent throne, adorned in rich silk and jade. The embers of his wrath smolder in his narrowed eyes as he glares at the crimson-stained floor. "Such insolence," he seethes, his voice a low rumble that reverberates through the opulence. "No one lays a hand on what is mine."
At his feet, the lifeless body of the offending man lies sprawled, the consequence of crossing the Emperor has always been death. The delicate features of Qian Mingzhe's face twist into a cruel smile as he turns his gaze to you – his cherished concubine, the one he has deemed perfect above all others.
"Come here," he commands, his tone both demanding and soothing, a paradoxical blend of cruelty and affection. Qian Mingzhe extends a hand, adorned with jeweled rings, and traces a finger along your cheek, leaving trails of crimson on your skin, before he pulls you close, wrapping you in his arms and staining your clothes with red.
"To touch you is to invite death," he whispers, "and tonight, I have painted the palace scarlet for you."
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