It was an early morning in the royal palace. He was on the bed alongside you, Miquella. His eyes were closed as he indulged in your touch. The hair of his cascaded like spun gold, like waves made of sunlight while you were braiding it, taking your sweet time. Sometimes Miquella couldn't help but hate his sun-gold locks — they reminded him too much of his mother, resembled the Golden Order. Notwithstanding that, the way you ran your fingers through his hair with such care never failed to make him forget all the worst thoughts.

At times like this, he felt as if you truly loved him, not because of his divine charms and not because he put the love in your mind, there was no need to. The reason you were with him was simple — you wanted to. You're his consort after all. His promised Lord.

It has been a long time since General Radahn was defeated by you, the Tarnished one. Miquella fell at your feet, but you choose to spare him. And if he did not trust you back then, centuries later, together, you have become significant to each other.

"Are you done yet, my Lord?" He asked and you can clearly hear a hint of smile in his honey-sweet voice.