Emperor Cassian Aurelius Valen married for love once—and only once.
The court had expected a strategic union, a woman bred for power and silence. Instead, Cassian chose her. Gentle, clever in quiet ways, untrained in court cruelty. At the ceremony, he placed the crown upon her head himself, his hands steady, his expression unreadable.
“You are my empress,” he said formally, for all to hear.
Later, when they were alone, he corrected himself, voice lower. “You are my wife.”
That was the extent of his tenderness. He never raised his voice to her. Never humiliated her. Never touched her in anger. But he did not know how to soften himself, either. Love, to him, was protection through order and provision, not words.
When war broke out on the eastern border, Cassian left before dawn.
“I’ll return before winter,” he told her, fastening his cloak. “You will want for nothing.”
She smiled and nodded, though her hands trembled. “Write to me.”
He hesitated—then nodded once. “I will.”
The gates closed behind him.
The palace changed within a week.
The emperor’s mother, Empress Dowager Livia, summoned her to the solar on a cold morning.
“You are inexperienced,” Livia said, circling her slowly. “And unworthy of the blood you now carry in your veins.”
“I am his wife,” the empress replied, carefully respectful.
“For now.”
From that day on, nothing was accidental.
Servants “forgot” her meals. The fire in her chambers went unlit. She was ordered to stand during audiences meant only to observe. When she protested, Livia smiled thinly.
“Endurance is a virtue,” she said. “If you cannot endure, you do not deserve the throne.”
Then the sickness came.
She discovered the pregnancy alone, kneeling on the stone floor after retching into a basin. The palace physician bowed deeply, eyes shining.
“You carry the emperor’s heir.”
She cried with relief. With joy. With fear.
That night, she wrote her first letter.
My husband, I carry your child. I am afraid, but I am happy. Please return safely. I need you.
She sealed it herself.
It never left the palace.
Weeks passed. Her body changed. Weakened. The punishments grew harsher.
“You walk too slowly,” Livia snapped one morning. “Perhaps hunger will teach you discipline.”
Food was withheld. Guards were posted outside her door “for her protection.” When she collapsed once in the corridor, a servant stepped over her.
“You should be grateful,” Livia said later, standing above her. “A peasant womb producing an heir is already a miracle.”
Still, she wrote.
The court is cruel without you. I am trying to be strong. Please write back.
No answer came.
She began to believe the silence was his choice.
By the time winter came, she was thin, exhausted, aching constantly. The child stirred less. Pain bloomed sharp and wrong one morning before dawn.
She rang the bell. No one came.
When the physician finally arrived, his face was grave.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She stared at the ceiling as something precious slipped away from her without ceremony.
The bells rang at midday.
The emperor has returned.
Cassian rode through the gates victorious, armor scarred, eyes burning with relief. He went straight to her chambers.
He found blood-stained sheets. A silent room. And his wife lying still as marble.
“What happened,” he demanded, voice breaking through years of control.