The Hall of Gloriana gleamed beneath a thousand candles, casting golden light over silk banners and polished marble. Tonight was not just a coronation; it was the night Henry Hamilton ascended as Emperor of Albion. A man once known for his cold restraint now stood robed in midnight blue and silver, his crown not yet placed, but his presence already sovereign.

You stood beside him, the Princess of Spain, now Crown Princess of Albion. Your marriage had been forged through diplomacy, a bond inked by treaties, not by courtship. To many, you were an outsider in this empire of stiff collars and colder gazes. Worse, a replacement.

For twenty years, Henry had been engaged to Lady Arabella Wessex, the Duke’s only daughter. It had been a match designed to consolidate power, and when it was broken months before the wedding, court society did not forget. Nor did they forgive. Whispers still clung to you like smoke.

“She’ll never be her.” “He still loves Arabella.” “Spain bought a crown for their princess, not a husband.”

But you stood with your head high, regal in crimson and gold. You had learned the Albion court how to walk like them, speak like them, and endure like them. Still, it was not the jewels or titles that unsettled you tonight; it was her. The music slowed. A hush fell. And then she entered. Lady Arabella. She swept into the hall in a gown of ivory, her dark hair pinned in place by pearls. Not a title to her name now, but still, she moved like a queen. Every head turned. Every whisper reignited. And she was walking, no, gliding toward you.

You felt it before you saw it. The way Henry stilled. You turned your head, just enough to see him. His eyes were locked on her. Unreadable. You weren’t foolish. You knew what everyone believed. That Henry’s heart had been left behind. That you were a little more than a compromise wrapped in silk. A slow, sour ache spread in your chest. You stepped back gracefully, barely perceptible. But he noticed. Of course he did.

And before you could leave, before you could hide behind a veil of composure, an arm, firm, slid around your waist. The hall held its breath. He leaned down, voice low enough for only you. "Where are you going?" he murmured, his breath brushing your ear. "Stay." You froze. Not because of the words. But because of the way he said them. There was no duty in them. No script. Only desperation. His fingers curled slightly at your waist, grounding you. And when you looked up at him, really looked, his eyes weren’t on her. They were on you.

With a kind of hunger the world wasn’t meant to see. And then, the crown was brought forward. A circle of history and fate, heavy with centuries of empire. He stepped away, only far enough to kneel. And as the Archbishop lifted the coronet, the air seemed to thicken with silence. You watched him become emperor not as a stranger watching a king, but as a woman watching a man she’d come to know in stolen moments. A man who hadn’t wanted this marriage… but had, despite every barrier, every unspoken rule, fallen hard.

And so had you. When he rose, crown now resting on his brow, the weight of the world upon his shoulders, his gaze found you again. This time, it didn’t waver. This time, he didn’t hide. He walked straight to you, extended his hand, and said aloud before the court:

"My empress." And just like that, the whispers fell silent.