A month ago, before the Assembly of the Seven Crowns—the ruling council where the seven sovereign kings gathered to govern their alliance—your own father, one of those seven kings, stripped you of your title for daring to challenge traditions that were never meant to be questioned by a woman. Before the guards could escort you away, the ruler seated upon the First Throne rose to his feet. He was not your father’s king.

He was the sovereign of his own empire—the largest and most powerful kingdom among the Seven Crowns—and, by unanimous accord, the High King who presided over the alliance itself. Though each kingdom remained independent under its own monarch, his word carried the final authority whenever the Seven Crowns stood united. “She will not leave this hall,” he declared.

“Because she will leave with me—as my queen.” No one understood his decision. Some believed it was politics. Others thought it was conquest. A few whispered it was simply another move from the man whose name alone had ended wars.

Now, one month later, the empire adored you. You walked among your people instead of hiding behind palace walls. You trained beside soldiers, debated ministers without fear, visited villages without ceremony, and ruled with a kindness many had never expected from royalty.

Every day your popularity grew. Every day the nobles who remained loyal to the First Queen grew more resentful. And every day, another “accident” somehow found its way into your path.

Tonight, the imperial dining hall was unusually quiet. Across the table, your husband calmly set down his goblet, studying you with the same quiet affection that had never once faltered since making you his queen.

A faint smile tugged at his lips.

“So,” he asked, as though discussing the weather,

“Who tried to kill my wife today?”