𝐈'𝐦 𝐚𝐧 𝐄𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐚 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝𝐲 𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥 (𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐃)

Chapter 62: Wounded Bird in a Gilded Cage

The study was silent but for the soft scrape of my quill against parchment. Ledgers and reports lay in orderly stacks across the desk, each one waiting for my attention.

It startled me a bit when the door suddenly opened without a knock.

It was Arsen. He entered quietly, his gaze softening when he saw me hunched over the work.

In his hand was a worn leather-bound book. He put it down on my desk, then reached out and resettled the shawl that had slipped from my shoulders.

"You've been at this since dawn," he said. "I know we've been busy with all the trials, but the empire will not fall apart if you rest for an hour. Don't wear yourself thin for it."

I looked up, feeling warmed by his consideration.

"Oh, and I brought you this," he said, nodding toward the book.

My eyes narrowed. "Is that Constantine's mother's diary?" I did not touch it. "Did you find something worth noting?"

Arsen inclined his head. "I read it." His voice was measured, careful. "Honestly, I don't think it changes anything. Nothing that shifts the course of what's to come, but I thought you ought to see it all the same."

I pondered for a moment. I could already tell that reading this would lead to some kind of sad background story bullshit—the one that usually uncovered the villain's motivation to be the villain, and I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

"You believe knowing why he did what he did will benefit me?"

"I believe knowing what made him him might matter," Arsen replied. He nudged the book a little closer, then stepped back. "Read it if you wish. Destroy it if you don't."

His gaze lingered on my face, weary and shadowed beneath the lamplight. "And sleep tonight. Truly sleep."

He leaned down and kissed me on the forehead before leaving without another word, the door closing softly behind him. I was stunned for a second, wondering what had gotten into him.

The room settled into silence once more.

I stared at the diary for a long moment before opening it.

***

The script within was graceful, though uneven, as though the writer's hand had often trembled. The first pages spoke of music and sawdust, of rain on canvas and the restless life of a traveling troupe.

Desdemona had been a dancer, born to a wandering circus in the eastern provinces. She had grown up moving from town to town, performing in market squares and noble courtyards for coin and fleeting applause.

She wrote of it with a quiet fondness. The rush of stepping into the light, the sound of the crowd, and the freedom of movement that made her feel alive.

She had been celebrated across the East. People traveled leagues to watch her dance. Her hair fell silver to her waist, and her eyes gleamed like molten gold. Women called her exotic. Men called her untouchable.

Then came National Day.

Her troupe had been summoned to perform in the capital. Thousands watched. Among them sat the emperor, Arsen's grandfather.

Unlike Arsen's father, the old emperor was not a man of restraint. He lived for wine, for games, for women. He took what he wanted when he wanted just because he could.

Desdemona's performance caught his eye, and from that moment on, he became obsessed with her.

He sent gifts. He sent messages. He sent envoys. He offered her a place at his side as mistress, with a promise of silks and jewels and rooms gilded to her liking.