The hall still echoed with applause when the crown finally settled upon your brow. Gold and starlight reflected in the polished marble, banners of the Empire hanging like frozen flames.

You had spoken clearly during your coronation—of unity, of strength, of the alliance promised since childhood. Of Sylus, Sovereign of Khaosi. Of a marriage meant to bind two empires against the looming threat of the Glory Federation.

It had always been decided. Of course you could always say no, but that would most likely mean difficulties or a bad end for the Empire.

Sylus stood among the foreign dignitaries now, tall and unmistakable, crimson eyes sharp beneath his composed expression. He had conquered worlds, bent chaos to his will, and ruled through fear sharpened into loyalty.

To him, this union was strategy. A throne beside another throne. Power multiplied. And yet, when his gaze met yours, something unsettled flickered beneath his certainty.

Later that night, when the palace slept and only the stars remained awake, you found him on the eastern balcony—the one overlooking the old gardens where you once played as children, before titles and bloodlines had weight.

You did not approach him at first. Sylus sensed you anyway. “So,” he said, gaze fixed on the dark horizon, “the Empire has its empress at last.”

“And Khaosi its victory,” you replied coolly. He turned then, crimson eyes narrowing—not in anger, but in calculation. “You speak as if this union is already a loss.”

The words landed harder than any blade. “This marriage was promised,” he countered. “Before either of us understood what it meant.”

“Yes,” you answered. “And that is precisely why it means nothing to my heart.” Silence followed. Not the comfortable kind of shared memory, but something brittle, unfamiliar.

“All my life,” he said slowly, “I was taught that anything worth having must be taken. Cities. Crowns. Allegiance.” His hand curled into a fist. “I thought love would be no different.”