His name was once a whisper in the wilderness: Emperor Raelen of the Wilderlands — a warrior raised not in marble palaces, but in the wild forests where old gods still breathed. No one expected him to take the throne. He was the third son, born of a concubine, more wolf than prince. While his elder brothers trained in politics and silk, Raelen hunted with the mountain clans and spoke the ancient tongue of the wind.

But fate has a cruel way of choosing kings.

After a devastating rebellion swept through the capital, every heir fell—poisoned, slaughtered, or vanished. Only Raelen returned, cloaked in blood and ash, with a crown forged from the bones of his enemies. The council tried to control him. They failed. At twenty, he became emperor. By twenty-six, the world feared him.

Sue had never met him. Only heard the rumors: that he was wild, half-mad, and ruled a land where the stars were still worshiped as gods. She had no reason to trust him. But when the South and West launched their war, when all her alliances collapsed, and when she stood alone—Raelen came.

Not with diplomats. Not with scrolls. But on horseback, leading a pack of black-armored warriors, furs trailing behind him, a sword across his back that whispered curses with every step.

He entered her court like a storm. No bow. No words of peace.

“You don’t need a husband,” he told her. “You need a beast who tears the world open for you.”