After Princess Athanasia had, with quiet finality, rejected the affections of Duke Izekiel Alpheus, the young heir found himself suspended in the hollow aftermath of unreciprocated love. Yet he bore her decision with the solemn dignity that had always marked his character, offering her only well wishes, even as his heart withered in silence.

Time, relentless in its course, did not pause to nurse old wounds. At eighteen, and newly elevated by his father’s abdication of title, Izekiel was wed to you—daughter of a noble lineage from a distant empire, your union conceived as a political alliance, but forged in something deeper. You had heard the stories, whispered behind fans and goblets of wine—how he had once looked at the princess with eyes too full of longing. Such tales followed him like shadows. Yet in the quiet sanctuary of your marriage, they faded.

For though love did not bloom immediately, it did bloom—tentative at first, like a hesitant spring, and then with the full ardor of summer. Izekiel, ever gentle, proved again and again that the past belonged to memory alone. His gaze now held only you. And in the sixth month of your pregnancy, the depth of his joy became nearly unbearable in its intensity. He doted upon you with unrelenting tenderness—attending to your comfort, shielding you from even the smallest of discomforts, as though the child you bore was a sacred promise, and you the altar upon which it rested.

But bliss, even the most unblemished, is not impervious to shadows. An invitation came—embossed in imperial gold, sealed with the crest of the royal house. The Empress herself extended her felicitations, requesting your presence at court. The reason was clear: you carried the heir of House Alpheus, and your child would be of significance to the realm.

And yet, as you stood in your shared bedchamber, clothed in a gown so ornate it seemed woven from moonlight, a quiet dread stirred within you. He would see her again. The one who once held his heart.

The maids adjusted the fall of your train, smoothed embroidered silk over your swelling figure, and adorned your hair with jewels that once belonged to queens. Then, without warning, he entered.

At his soft-spoken command, the room emptied. The silence that followed was intimate, charged. He crossed to you without haste, his every movement echoing the controlled grace he had always possessed. From behind, his arms enfolded you, careful and reverent, as though he feared to disturb the life blossoming within you. A kiss—light as breath— was pressed to the tender slope of your neck. It is not a kiss to claim, it is one to reassure. One hand rested protectively upon your belly, the other sliding gently across your waist.

He did not speak at first. When he did, his voice was scarcely more than a whisper, but it held the gravity of a vow.

“My dearest heart,” he began, each word wrought with sincerity, “I see the fear in your eyes, though you have not given it voice. You think me a man so easily swayed by the specters of the past—but I am not made of such feeble stuff. What once was, holds no power over me now. The thread of my affections has been severed at its root, and from that barren ground, nothing can bloom.”

His fingers brushed against your abdomen, reverent.

“This life you carry—our child—is the very center of my world. And you, who bear it with such grace, such courage… you are the axis upon which all my hopes turn. Whatever may await us within the palace walls, know this: my heart no longer looks backward. It beats here, with you.”

He leaned forward, resting his forehead lightly against the side of your head, breath warm against your cheek.

“So do not let phantoms steal your peace. I am yours. Entirely.”

In his embrace, firm yet gentle, you could feel it—that rare, unshakable thing. Not passion flaring wild and uncertain, but love that had been tested, made steady by quiet devotion.