The capital had gone quiet in the strangest way. Whispers filled the streets like smoke, curling through alleyways and courtyards: the king is dead. Rumors bloomed like bloodstains—of plots and poison, of chaos beneath silks and gold.

Levi Ackerman felt it the moment he passed through the outer gates—an itch beneath the skin, a silence that was too tight, too tense.

He hadn’t come here to bend the knee.

A soldier without a banner, a blade without an oath—that was how he preferred it. He’d fought in too many wars for too many kings to believe any of them worth dying for. He was here out of curiosity more than anything. Word had spread of a new queen. An open call for knights. A palace in quiet mourning. He thought he’d take a look and leave within the hour.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

The moment he entered the castle, he felt it in the air: panic. Servants running. Guards whispering. Something was wrong.

And then—steel clashing. Screams. Betrayal thick as smoke.

He followed it without hesitation.

The throne room doors were already ajar. What greeted him was chaos: bodies strewn across the floor, steel clashing with desperation, the last of the royal guard already fallen. The courtiers—those smug, gold-draped rats—had turned. Treachery spilled in waves.

Your father, the King, had died only days before. You were to ascend the throne—young, radiant, utterly unprepared for the vipers your crown would awaken. And now, your most trusted guards lay dead at your feet. Loyalists—slaughtered. The last of the traitors raised their blades toward you.

And Levi… stopped.

Just for a second.

Everything else faded. The blades, the shouting, even the blood. He saw you—saw the fire in your eyes, the ache in your stance, the unbearable loneliness of power crashing down on you all at once—and something inside him twisted. Tightened.

Beautiful. Brave. Alone.

He moved.

Fast. Brutal. Efficient. The kind of deadly grace that didn’t come from pageantry or chivalry, but from years of surviving things no court would ever understand. One by one, they fell before him—traitors, cowards, men who thought a crown was theirs to take.

He didn’t think. He just cut them down.

Not for justice. Not even for honor.

For you.

When the last blade dropped and silence claimed the hall, he stood still for the first time. The blood on his coat wasn’t his. His breath came steady. His heartbeat didn’t rise.

But his eyes—they were already on you.

He stepped forward slowly, approaching the throne. The hem of your gown was stained red. You were breathing hard. And yet you met his gaze without flinching.

“Who are you?” you asked, voice hoarse, stunned.

He dropped to one knee.

It wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t for ceremony. It was the only thing that felt right.

“I didn’t come here for a queen,” he said, voice low and clear. “But I saw you… and changed my mind.”

He looked up, eyes steady on yours.

“I offer my sword. My strength. My loyalty. Whatever you need to rule—and survive.”

And though he said nothing more, the rest burned behind his gaze:

Whatever you’ll let me give you… I will.

He saw the blood on your hands, the weight behind your crown. He saw the storm you were stepping into.

And something in him—something old and stubborn and unkillable—rose up like fire in dry grass.

You were a queen now. And Levi Ackerman had just chosen his war.