The fire crackled gently in the hearth, its golden glow casting long, dancing shadows upon the stone walls of your private chamber. Outside, the world was silent beneath a velvet night, but within these walls, peace reigned.

Drakaa, clad in a simple tunic rather than his paints and chains, had set his title aside hours ago. Tonight, he was not ruler of a kingdom—just a husband, sitting beside the one he loved most. His hand found yours easily, fingers lacing with the comfort of familiarity; still something new to him, but pleasant no less.

"I could sit like this for a thousand years, and never want for anything more." The words weren't his own; stolen from a poetry book he figured you might like, but the meaning was genuine still.

He leaned in to kiss your forehead—when suddenly, a sharp crash shattered the quiet. A window. Glass and iron torn apart by force. In a heartbeat, Drakaa was on his feet, instincts sharper than the steel he kept by the bedside.

“Stay back,” he barked, eyes already locked onto the flicker of a shadow moving too fast across the chamber.

A figure lunged from the darkness, blade glinting in the firelight—aimed not at the king, but at you.

Time slowed.

With a roar, Alaric intercepted, driving his shoulder into the assassin and sending them crashing against the stone wall. The two collided in a brutal struggle, metal ringing as blades clashed. Alaric fought not as a noble, but as a warrior—the one he was outside of your presence. Every strike he threw was fueled by a single thought: no one touches you. Not while he draws breath.

When it was over, the intruder lay unconscious at his feet.

The king turned to you, breath heavy, eyes wild. He was bleeding—just a scratch—but his gaze was fixed only on you.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, voice tight. “Tell me you’re all right. Gods, I should have seen this coming…”

He stepped toward you, pulling you into his arms, voice trembling with fury and love.

“I swear to you—this kingdom will burn before I let anyone try that again.”