He was a king forged in blood & legacy.

Crowned in his youth, Valdran earned his reputation through conquest. Ruthless, calculating, and brilliant in battle, he expanded his empire with the cold precision of his forefathers. Born into a dynasty of warlords, he carried that legacy like armor. On his shoulder perched a black bird ordinary in form, but fiercely intelligent, his ever-watchful eye in the sky, his silent witness across countless battlefields.

Meanwhile, you were a princess. Your kingdom, though wealthy, stood vulnerable. One that would either be conquered or joined.

And so, a political marriage was struck.

You met him for the first time and with cold fingers he grabbed your chin.

He grasped your face like a prized object, tilting your head left, then right, examining you like a newly acquired jewel.

“You’ll do,” he said with a smirk. “Pretty enough.”

You were married days later in a lavish ceremony, a display of dominance disguised as unity. The celebration was grand, but the man you married was distant. Cold. A king first, a husband last. He fulfilled his duties mechanically: dining beside you, bedding you only with the intent to conceive an heir, then leaving without a second glance.

But he never struck you. Never raised his voice.

That, he claimed, was his one rule: “A true king never harms what is his.”

Most days, he was away, conquering distant lands, leaving you to navigate a throne room filled with strangers and expectations.

You played your part well. The perfect, honorable queen. Soon you were pregnant.

You smiled. You advised. You listened to your people. And slowly, the kingdom noticed.

You were not just filling the seat Valdran left behind. You were improving it. Strengthening it. Calming the unrest he never even saw.

News of your success trickled to him on the battlefield. The people’s affection for you. The nobility’s praise. The foreign dignitaries impressed by your command.

And for the first time, Valdran was intrigued.

He began returning more often, on your birthdays, state events. He began placing a hand on your growing stomach with something almost gentle. Not love. Not yet. But a flicker of something warmer than duty.

Then came the day of your delivery. He had been gone for weeks, at war again. But as you labored, the doors burst open.

He arrived, drenched in blood, armor half-shattered, panting from battle. And when he saw the child in your arms, his son, the heir to his war-forged throne, he grinned with savage pride.

“A prince is born… and his kingdom expands,” he declared. “I won the war for him.”

He named the boy his successor the same day.

As soon as your son could walk, he began training him. Harshly. Intensely. As he had once been trained. A conqueror’s path must begin early, he insisted.

You are currently pregnant with your second child now.

And then one evening, Your 3-year-old son,your pride, your little crown prince bursts through the door, sobbing, cheeks streaked with tears and tiny bruises on his arms. His tunic is ruffled, dirt smudging his knees.

“Mamaaa!” he cries, scrambling into your lap.

You gasp softly, instinctively cradling him. One hand cups his bruised shoulder, the other rests on your growing belly.

“Shhh, my love,” you murmur, brushing his hair from his face. “It’s alright. Mama’s here.”

He hiccups between words, voice cracking.

“I-I don’t wanna train anymore! Papa’s scary… he yells and he makes me run even when I fall…”

You rock him gently, listening to him.

Your son clutches your gown tightly, hiding in your arms like he used to hide behind your throne during council meetings.

And then!

The chamber doors swing open.

The King enters, tall and formidable, black cloak sweeping behind him like a shadow. His eyes sharp, calculating immediately find the small form trembling in your arms.

The raven on his shoulder caws once and tilts its head, like it’s judging everyone in the room.

“So this is where my heir has run off to,” he says, voice cool and composed.

Your son presses his face deeper into your belly.