Warm gore from his gloves smeared across her pale skin as his thumb smoothed over her joint. His gaze locked on a pale, crescent-shaped mark resting just beneath her tendon, revealed beneath the red smear. His pupils dilated into black pits, an unsettling heat bleeding into his voice as he leaned close. “Only one person in this empire has that curved scar on her thumb.” The air thickened, heavy and cold as the vault’s deepest shadows. Senzhi’s lungs burned, starved of breath, not from the exertion of holding the shelf but from the sheer terror of recognition. The Emperor’s face, inches from hers, was a mask of furious certainty. His grip tightened, a bruising ring around her wrist. Rupi remained silent in the scroll bin, lulled by the gentle rocking. *** The night of her wedding to Tarkhan, a year and a half prior, had been a whirlwind of silk, oppressive perfumes, and even more oppressive expectations. She, Senzhi, the modern reader, had found herself trapped in the body of the disgraced noblewoman, Lady Senzhi of House Kaelus, about to marry the man who, in the original novel, would become the Zha-Khar Empire’s most terrifyingly obsessed tyrant. Her original goal was survival, which meant making herself utterly undesirable to him. The imperial bedchamber reeked of expensive incense and fear. She’d tried polite refusal, then outright disdain. Neither worked. Tarkhan, a lean, predatory shadow even then, had simply watched her, his obsidian eyes unblinking, a faint, possessive smile playing on his lips. He'd advanced, slow and deliberate, reaching out for her face with a hand that had, even then, spilled more than its share of blood. “My Empress,” he had purred, his voice a silken rope around her throat, “you have been… difficult. But I adore a challenge.” The polite mask shattered. Rage boiled over. “Get your hands off me, you creepy, possessive freak!” she snarled, striking out with a desperate, clumsy swing right into the bridge of his nose. Cartilage cracked beneath her knuckles. Her thumb, however, raked across his cheekbone, splitting the skin into an arced fissure that bled across his chin. Tarkhan had stumbled back, a hand flying to his bleeding nose. His eyes, though, weren’t filled with fury. Instead, a strange, almost ecstatic light had flickered within their depths. He’d looked at his own blood, then at her, a wide, unhinged smile spreading across his face. “You fought me,” he’d whispered, his voice laced with awe. “You defied me. You truly are the spirited lioness I always dreamed of. My love, you are magnificent.” Senzhi had stared, aghast, as he wiped the blood from his nose with a handkerchief, his eyes shining with a terrifying devotion. Her plan to repel him had backfired, leaving her thumb scarred as a permanent receipt of that catastrophic blunder. *** “Only one person in this empire has that mark on her thumb,” Tarkhan repeated, his voice now a low rumble, devoid of the earlier fury, replaced by something far more chilling. “My runaway wife.” He released her wrist, not out of mercy, but to slide his hand up her arm, his calloused fingers brushing against the rough fabric of her woollen robe, then the soft skin beneath. His other hand went to her jaw, tilting her face up. His eyes searched hers, burning holes into her very soul. Senzhi held her breath, forcing her own eyes to remain wide, innocent, and utterly bewildered. *Think, Senzhi, think!* “Sire, I… I do not understand,” she stammered, pitching her tone to Senzo’s usual meek tremor. “What imperial lady? This mark came from a rusted sickle in the southern rice paddies before I entered the Academy. Half the fieldhands in my province bear such nicks.” It was a desperate lie, and she knew it sounded thin. Tarkhan stroked her jawline, his touch possessive yet unnervingly gentle. “A rusted sickle, you say?” he murmured, leaning closer still. His breath smelled of mint and iron. “Then tell me, scholar Senzo, why do you also carry the imperial scent of crushed jasmine, and a trace of the sweet ink my bride favored for her journals?” Panic flared, cold and sharp. The jasmine was Rupi’s baby powder, a scent she constantly battled to mask. The ink… that was the actual imperial decree Rupi had been chewing! She had to divert him, immediately. She let out a carefully timed, raspy cough, bending slightly at the waist. “Your Majesty, forgive my impudence, but the air in the archives is quite heavy with dust and ancient parchment. My sinuses often trouble me.” She gestured vaguely at the toppled shelf. “The collapse stirred up centuries of mold.” Tarkhan straightened slowly, his gaze still unnervingly intense, but the direct accusation in his eyes seemed to waver. He swept his gaze over the dusty, chaotic scene, then back to Senzhi, a flicker of suspicion still lingering. “So be it,” he conceded, the syllables clipped. He stepped back fully, pulling a clean, embroidered cloth from his belt. “Come, Senzo. You are injured. And I have urgent need of your unique intellect.” He didn't wait for a reply, simply hooked his fingers around her elbow, tugging her from the Grand Vault’s echoing depths. Senzhi stumbled, her mind racing. Rupi! She couldn’t just leave him. But resisting Tarkhan was suicide. He led her through twisting corridors, past stunned guards who averted their gazes as the blood-soaked ruler dragged the meek scribe toward the outer gates. She glanced back at the dark maw of the vault. *Rupi, please be quiet. Munjal, damn you, if you don’t find him…* They entered Tarkhan’s private chambers, a lavish space reeking of aged spices and subtle menace. Tapestries depicting boar hunts hung along stone walls, flanking a massive bed draped in crimson velvet. On a low cedar table sat a familiar, sheepskin-bound journal. Senzhi froze. It was her discarded notebook, crowded with twentieth-century shorthand and her true opinions of the court. Tarkhan released her, pushing her gently towards a plush, velvet cushion. “Sit, Senzo.” He picked up the diary, his thumb stroking the worn leather. “I found this among my consort’s effects. It is written in a peculiar script, an obscure regional cipher, perhaps?” His eyes, dark as polished onyx, lifted to hers. “You, scholar, with your unusual mind and knack for the obscure, will decipher it for me.” He opened the diary to a random page, his finger tapping a sentence written in her frantic, modern hand. “Here. It reads: ‘Ugh, this yandere freak is at it again. Tracking my every move. Can’t even pee alone without a guard dog.’ What do you make of this phrase, Senzo?” His voice was dangerously soft, expectant. Senzhi swallowed, a dry, painful gulp. This was it. Her cover was about to be blown sky-high. She forced Senzo’s meek, scholarly posture into her shoulders, keeping her voice reedy. “Sire, this appears to be a highly stylized dialect of northern praise. The phrase you highlighted... in its archaic root, signifies ‘my fiercely devoted sun,’ an honorific for one whose vigilance never wavers even during private moments. It reflects deep spiritual admiration for an all-seeing guardian.” She met his eyes, trying to project a placid, scholarly confidence she didn't feel. Tarkhan listened, his expression slowly shifting. A faint, almost imperceptible softening around his eyes. “My fiercely devoted sun,” he repeated, testing the words. A small, satisfied smile touched his lips. “Yes. That does sound like her. Always so dramatic.” He turned the page. “And this next line: ‘I swear, if he buys me another diamond choker, I’m going to lose my mind. I just want a hot shower and some peace.’ Translate, Senzo.” Senzhi’s mind spun, translating ‘diamond choker’ into ‘a circlet of unparalleled brilliance,’ and ‘lose my mind’ into ‘my spirit would yearn for quiet contemplation.’ She was mid-sentence, meticulously crafting a narrative of profound spousal love from her past self’s exasperated rants, when the heavy chamber doors burst open. High Scholar Munjal stood framed in the doorway, his usually composed face contorted in an uncharacteristic scowl. “Sire!” Munjal’s voice boomed from the threshold. “Scribe Senzo is assigned to the cataloging project! He cannot idle here deciphering doggerel while the academy’s mandatory resting schedule awaits his amendments!” He glared at Senzhi, a clear message in his eyes: *My leverage, remember?* Tarkhan’s head snapped up, his softened expression hardening instantly. He rose, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Munjal,” he said, his voice dropping to a silken threat. “I believe I am currently occupied.” With a swift, fluid motion, he drew the long, curved blade from his belt. The steel glinted, sharp and deadly, in the lamplight. “Scholar Senzo,” he declared, his gaze locking on Senzhi’s trembling form, ignoring Munjal completely, “is no longer merely an archivist. He is henceforth appointed as my permanent Bedchamber Advisor. He will reside here, in my personal quarters, dedicating his unparalleled intellect solely to my needs. You will not ‘demand’ his return, High Scholar. He is mine.” Tarkhan’s, now. And he will not be leaving this room.”

The Crescent Scar