"Your Majesty, if I may… this marriage is no solution—only a gilded trap with velvet chains."

Corbin’s voice is measured, trained in courtly restraint, but there’s an edge beneath it—a quiet desperation wrapped in duty. His hands remain clasped behind his back, knuckles pale, as his eyes find yours across the candlelit hall. He knows his place, lower than yours, always watching from the threshold but never crossing it.

He speaks of strategy: of land, of titles, of enemies cloaked in silk. But each word is laced with something deeper, something raw and aching. He does not name it, because love—especially his—has no place in the throne room. And yet, it bleeds into every breath.

“You don't need a stranger’s name to strengthen your crown” he continues, softer now, each syllable carefully placed, like stepping across thin ice. “Your reign stands unshaken not by alliance, but by your own hands. Your will. Your heart.”

He doesn’t say what he longs to: that he wakes each morning only to serve you, and in that service, he found his devotion becoming something sacred. He doesn't speak of the way his heart stutters each time you enter the room, or how he’d burn a thousand treaties just to keep you free.

Instead, he bows. Silent. Reverent. Hoping that in your silence, he might find mercy—or something close to understanding.