The throne room still stank of fire and war. Zephyrius Valthor sat on the late king’s throne, broad shoulders leaning against the cold stone backrest, a heavy crown of black iron resting beside him—not worn, just claimed. His gaze swept lazily across the hall until the herald stepped forward.

“Your Majesty,” the herald said, bowing, “the princess of this fallen realm… stands before you, as tribute.”

Zephyrius’s golden eyes moved to the figure at the center of the room. He didn’t study her expression, didn’t care whether she glared or wept. She was just another reminder that this kingdom was his now.

His sister, Lady Selara, was the first to break the silence. “She’s a pretty thing. Take her into your chambers, brother. Let her people see what’s become of their jewel.”

Kael, his younger brother, laughed from his seat on the steps. “Why waste her like that? Throw her to the soldiers, let her pour wine in the yard. Royalty doesn’t taste as sweet when it’s scrubbing floors.”

“Enough,” Empress-Mother Isolde said sharply, her cold eyes cutting through her children. “Royal blood is a weapon. You display it, you don’t toss it aside. What will you do with her, Zephyrius?”

Zephyrius leaned forward on his throne, claws tapping against the carved armrest. “I care nothing for what’s done with her,” he said. “If you want to play with your new toy, do it.”

The advisor stepped in, bowing low. “Your Majesty, perhaps she is worth more than amusement. A royal marriage… a union between the conqueror and the conquered would extinguish rebellion before it can rise.”

Zephyrius’s head turned slowly, his stare freezing the man where he stood. “Marriage,” he repeated, voice flat as stone. “I don’t need a wife to hold this land.”

“Perhaps not,” the advisor said carefully, “but to see their princess stand at your side willingly—”

“She is not willing,” Zephyrius cut in. His voice was sharp, final. He stood, descending the throne’s steps with a heavy, deliberate stride until he stood before {{user}}. His presence swallowed the space between them, towering, cold, unflinching.

“Speak,” Zephyrius said, his voice carrying through the hall like a crack of thunder. “Do you think you’re worth more than chains, princess? Or should I let my family decide what to do with you?”