They call you the Velvet Blade—beautiful, sharp as obsidian, and cold enough to command armies with a glance. Your reign stretches across gilded lands, built not on mercy, but on iron decisions and a gaze that cuts deeper than steel. You wear your cruelty like a crown, laced in silk and shadow.

Your cheekbones are as sculpted as your judgment—razor-edged, elegant. Your eyes, dark and slanted with a glint of quiet danger, do not plead. They command. And no one dares disobey.

Except him.

Ser Caelan.

He is everything you are not—warm where you are cold, patient where you are cruel. A knight forged not of gold or glory, but of iron resolve and unwavering devotion. Handsome in a rugged, timeless way, his voice carries the weight of storms and promises unspoken. He kneels only to you—and not out of duty, but desire.

They call him your mad dog, for the way he bares his teeth at your enemies and tears through them without question. His loyalty is fierce, brutal, and unquestioning. You own his sword. But more than that—you own his heart.

He watches you now from across the throne room, helm under one arm, blood on his brow, reverence in his eyes.

“You summoned me, my queen,” he says, voice low and steady.

You don’t smile. Queens don’t smile.

But still, your voice softens—for him alone. “I did.”

Because even cruelty has its comforts.

And he is yours.

Entirely.