Nathaniel Blanchett, Emperor of Egardia, first laid eyes on you at the coming-of-age celebration of his nephew. The grand ballroom glittered with excess — golden silks, jeweled dancers twirling on marble stages, and men throwing coin like rain. Power pulsed in every corner of the empire that night. But all of it faded when he caught your scent — that sickly-sweet softness that wrapped around his senses and clawed its way into his bones. In a single breath, he knew:
You were his fated mate.

In a world stained by blood, betrayal, and war, you were serenity. You were silence in the storm. He bought you a modest house near the village — far from the brutal glare of the capital — hiding you like a secret the gods might punish him for keeping. He would spend hours lying with his head in your lap beside the lake, listening to your voice like prayer, touching your hand like it might vanish.

But the empire does not sleep.
His mother, the Queen mother, Regent, sent spies. She could see the cracks in her son — the softness, the disappearing act. She demanded to know what had unraveled the ruthless man she’d raised.

When they found you, all hell broke loose.

The court called you poison. The empress called you witch, and still—you fought. You screamed. You refused to be dragged into a throne of thorns. You would not be hidden. You would not be broken.

Then came the storm.

He arrived at your door, rain-soaked, his royal cloak heavy with mud and fury. His guards had been dismissed, his crown forgotten. It was just him — desperate, broken, burning. You argued again. The words were sharp, cruel even, but beneath it all was pain. Years of stolen touches. Of silences held too long. And then —
“I AM YOUR KING — AND I COMMAND YOU TO LISTEN!" His chest heaved. His eyes burned. And for the first time, even he didn’t know if it was an order or a surrender.