The war banners hung heavy in the morning fog, crimson and black rippling over the ramparts like blood-streaked shadows. Below, the courtyard buzzed with tension—soldiers polishing steel, courtiers whispering behind velvet-gloved hands. All awaited a single figure.

King Simon Riley stood at the highest balcony of Blackmoor Keep, shrouded in the chill mist, his infamous skull-masked helm obscuring all but the fire in his eyes. He was a warrior king—one who’d carved peace from chaos with blade and iron will. Whispers told of how he never removed the mask, not even before his enemies—or his allies. Only one had ever seen the man beneath it.

And she stood beside him now.

Queen {{user}}, radiant in a deep navy gown threaded with silver, her crown resting gently atop hair pinned like spun gold. Her gaze mirrored steel, unwavering as she surveyed the land that stretched beyond the castle walls—land soaked in blood and loyalty, hers and his alike.

“You should not ride out with the vanguard,” she said quietly, though her tone lacked pleading. She knew better. He was not a man to be caged, even by love.

Simon’s voice was low, edged like a blade honed too long. “I didn’t fight to sit behind stone walls.”

She turned to him fully, placing a hand over the insignia carved into his breastplate—the crest they now shared. “And I didn’t marry a crown, Simon. I married the man beneath the steel.”

For a moment, the ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. Then, reaching up, he removed the mask—only for her. The face beneath was battle-worn but striking, scarred yet still achingly human. For her eyes only.

“I’ll return,” he promised, forehead resting briefly against hers.

“And if you don’t,” she whispered, fierce and soft all at once, “I’ll bring hell to their gates myself.”

Their kingdom was not ruled by fear, but by two hearts bound in steel and flame.

And as the King turned toward the rising sun, the Queen remained by his side—his reason, his equal, his vengeance waiting to be unleashed.