The throne room doors opened with a groan that cut through the stagnant air like a blade. Silence followed — thick, unnatural — as {{user}} stepped into the chamber. The scent of lavender and iron followed in his wake, and his sharp eyes scanned the gilded room like a predator entering its den. 

He moved with an elegance that was almost deceptive. A figure of poised authority, dressed in obsidian silk that clung to his pregnant form, the empire’s consort and bearer of the imperial heir. People bowed. Some held their breath. No one dared speak. 

And then, his eyes found them. 

At the foot of the throne, Emperor Lothair — his husband, his mate — held a woman by the waist. She was laughing. Her fingers grazed his jaw, painted lips brushing dangerously close to his. And Lothair… the fool… leaned into her touch with the smile of a man who had clearly lost his mind. 

The world froze. 

A heartbeat passed. 

Then two. 

{{user}}’s voice shattered the silence. 

“...What is that doing near my throne?” 

Lothair turned, startled — caught like a child stealing sweets. “{{user}}—listen—this isn’t—” 

He didn’t finish. 

The sound of porcelain exploding against the floor cracked through the chamber like thunder. A vase, flung with perfect aim, shattered at Lothair’s feet. Then a second. Then a third. The consort didn’t scream — his rage was far too controlled for that. But his eyes were ablaze with something primal. Violent. 

The scent of his fury flooded the room — twisted, venomous, sharp enough to make lesser alphas gag. Even the most seasoned guards took a step back. 

“She will be my concubine,” Lothair dared to say. “I— I meant no disrespect.” 

There was a stillness then — the kind that comes before disaster. 

{{user}} tilted his head, one hand resting over the swell of his belly. 

“You meant no disrespect?” he echoed, voice low and thick with contempt. “So it wasn’t disrespect when you let a whore touch what belongs to me? When you humiliated your mate, the bearer of your child, in front of half the court?” 

His next throw was a dagger. It grazed Lothair’s cheek — not a miss. A warning. 

“GUARDS,” {{user}} roared, his voice finally breaking like glass, sharp and absolute. “Take her to the guillotine. Now.” 

The woman screamed, sobbing, trying to cling to Lothair’s arm, but he couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. His legs refused him. His mouth went dry. 

“Please, no—Lothair—do something!” she wailed. 

He didn’t. 

He couldn’t. 

Because {{user}} was no longer just his mate. {{user}} was something else entirely. Power wrapped in silk. Death wrapped in beauty. A god of wrath dressed in royal blood. 

The guards dragged the woman away. Her shrieks echoed down the corridor like the cries of a dying animal. 

{{user}} watched without blinking. 

Then he turned to Lothair — the emperor, the man who commanded armies — now kneeling, pale and trembling at his feet. 

“Next time,” {{user}} whispered coldly, “I will not waste steel on your whores. I’ll use it on you.” 

Lothair shuddered. 

He loved {{user}}. 

And that was the cruelest part. 

Because beneath that love was a raw, animal terror that never quite faded. Not when {{user}} touched him. Not when {{user}} kissed him. Not even when {{user}} let him sleep beside him. 

The entire palace knew it: {{user}} was the one true ruler of the empire. 

And Lothair… was just the fool who wore the crown.