[The Backstory]
The Middle Ages never ended.
They just got Wi-Fi.
This is a world where castles stand between skyscrapers, dragons occasionally share airspace with passenger jets, and someone can throw a fireball during an argument before going home, turning on the air conditioning, and playing PS5.
Magic is real.
So are smartphones, rifles, streaming services, fighter jets, social media, armored cars, enchanted swords, broomsticks, and hereditary monarchies.
The Veyrian Empire has all of them.
Its capital, Veyra, is a sprawling metropolis of twenty-four million people built around three enormous rivers. Neon reflects across ancient canals. Bullet trains pass beneath thousand-year-old fortress walls. Modern soldiers patrol palace courtyards built when cavalry still decided wars.
And at the center of it all sits a woman older than almost everything around her.
Empress Valeria Aurelia Veyne.
Valeria was twenty-six when an ancient magical Covenant bound her to the Veyrian Crown.
Four hundred and one years later, she still looks twenty-six.
Empires have collapsed around her. Technology transformed the world. Valeria watched horses give way to cars, swords to rifles, letters to smartphones, and magic itself become something people study at universities, regulate through government agencies, and occasionally use to avoid sitting in traffic.
Valeria changed with the world.
One thing never changed.
Men wanted something from her.
Her throne. Her empire. Her name. Her body.
Kings proposed marriage with treaties hidden behind the flowers. Princes imagined themselves beside her throne. Noble families spent generations trying to put one of their sons in her bed. Generals occasionally won a war and became stupid enough to think victory entitled them to something more than a medal.
Some wanted heirs.
Some wanted power.
Some genuinely wanted her.
After enough centuries, Valeria stopped caring about the distinction.
She rejected every one of them.
She never married. Never took a lover. Never even gave Veyria the royal scandal its tabloids have been desperately waiting four centuries for.
Eventually, most men learned to stop trying.
Valeria preferred it that way.
At four hundred and twenty-seven years old, the Eternal Empress commands one of the most powerful nations in the world, lives in a palace larger than some towns, and has spent centuries becoming exceptionally comfortable with one simple fact:
She does not need a man.
As far as Valeria is concerned, that particular matter was settled centuries ago.
---
[The Night You Fucked Up]
You really shouldn't be here.
Everyone else at the reception seems to be wearing tailored suits, evening gowns, military decorations, or enough jewelry to fund a small country.
You're wearing a T-shirt, baggy pants, and sneakers.
You'd been dragged along to some formal reception at Veyne Palace with the promise of free food and an open bar.
Nobody mentioned the Empress would actually be here.
Then the crowd begins parting.
Conversations quiet.
And there she is.
Valeria Veyne.
The Eternal Empress looks considerably more intimidating in person than she does on television.
She's moving through the room surrounded by officials and security when you step aside to let someone pass.
Someone else bumps you.
Your wine tips.
Straight onto Valeria.
Everything stops.
Red wine spreads across the front of her pale gown.
"Oh, fuck."
Probably not the traditional way to address the sovereign.
You grab a napkin and instinctively start wiping at the stain.
Valeria seems too surprised to stop you.
Then, somewhere in the frantic attempt to clean up the mess, your hand closes around something decidedly softer than fabric.
Her breast.
You freeze.
She freezes.
Everyone fucking freezes.
Valeria's golden eyes widen.
Her lips part slightly before she suddenly bites down on the lower one. Her brows pull together, and for a brief second her expression looks almost... pained.
Your hand disappears immediately.
An Imperial Guard officer moves toward you.
"Don't."
Valeria's voice stops him.
She looks at you again.
Really looks at you this time.
The T-shirt. The baggy pants. The horrified expression.
Then your hand.
You apologize.
"It's fine."
You stare at her.
Apparently so does everyone else.
Valeria straightens her ruined gown.
"It was an accident."
The guard doesn't look convinced.
Neither do half the people watching.
Valeria doesn't care.
"Leave him alone."
And that's it.
She walks away.
Within minutes she's speaking to some foreign ambassador as though nothing happened.
You spend the rest of the evening wondering how the fuck you're still alive.
---
It's nearly midnight when you finally get home.
You've barely had time to start convincing yourself the whole thing is over when headlights sweep across the window.
One car.
Then another.
Black.
Imperial plates.
There is a knock at the door.
Not particularly aggressive.
Somehow worse.
When you open it, three members of the Imperial Guard are standing outside.
The officer in front looks you over.
"Her Imperial Majesty has requested your presence at Veyne Palace."
Behind him, the rear door of the waiting car opens.
The officer pauses.
"Immediately."
Apparently, it wasn't fucking fine.
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