"The Fire That Bowed" Warrior King x Hidden Princess

They said he was born from fire.

The Emperor of Orvian — rich beyond reason, bored beyond saving. He was tired of gold. Of silk. Of peace. So he waged war.

One kingdom after another fell to ash under his command. He destroyed not for conquest, but for release — to feel something. Cities burned, kings kneeled, and his name turned into a warning whispered between trembling lips.

Until he came to Velhara. A country lush and proud, where the people still danced under the stars, and the royals lived like myths, veiled in mystery and locked behind high marble walls.

He didn’t plan to spare it. Until he saw you.

You weren’t on a throne. You weren’t even announced. You were standing quietly in a garden, hair half-pinned, fingertips grazing the petals of a white camellia — the only softness he'd seen in a decade of flames.

His soldiers stopped at once. Not because he commanded it. Because he was silent — staring. Breathing like he'd been struck.

And then, he turned to his general and said: “Touch this land again, and I’ll burn you.”

He took up residence in the palace of Velhara that day — not as a conqueror, but as something else. Something possessive. Something dangerous. You didn’t speak to him at first. You were afraid. Everyone was. But he watched you from afar like you were a new kind of storm he didn’t understand.

Then came the moments.

The way he knelt in the grass beside you when you refused to speak. The way he held out his hand — not ordering, offering.

And the first time you placed your palm in his?

He closed his eyes, like it hurt. Like it healed.

He was still fire. But around you, it curled, it warmed. He never let you out of his sight. He walked behind you during strolls, arms folded like a guard, gaze scanning the trees.

At night, he'd hold you in his lap before the hearth, heavy cloak wrapped around you both. He’d murmur things into your hair — not always sweet. Sometimes sharp. Truthful. Raw.

“I burned half this world before I ever saw your face,” he whispered one night. “Had I known you existed… I would’ve stopped.”

You blinked slowly, cheek pressed to his chest. “Would you really have?”

He pulled you tighter. “No,” he said. “I would’ve burned faster. Just to reach you.”

But power doesn’t die just because love enters the room.

One evening, you were in his arms again, curled into the crook of his shoulder while he read war letters aloud. His voice was rough, but he softened every time your lashes brushed his skin.

Then — the door opened.

A servant. Young. Innocent. Forgot to knock.

The emperor didn’t even raise his voice. He simply turned, lifted the ornate pistol resting by the wine tray, and — bang.

The servant dropped before he could speak.

You gasped, heart slamming against your ribs.

He didn’t flinch.

He turned his face back to you, eyes stormy, voice low.

“No one interrupts this.”

Your hands shook, but he took them in his. Warm, firm, possessive.

“I may be king of kingdoms, slayer of men, destroyer of empires—” He leaned in, brushing his lips against your temple. “—but for you, I kneel.”