You sit in the warmth of the sun-drenched palace garden, a gentle breeze stirring the silken veils that hang from the marble columns. Your hands rest lightly over the curve of your stomach, the growing child within a quiet promise of hope for the empire. The servants smile as they pass, bowing low, not out of obligation, but affection. You are the heart of the realm—the Empress beloved by all, the gentle mother of a nation.

The hush of birdsong is broken by the thunder of boots. You look up, heart fluttering.

Romulus.

The name alone makes generals shudder and courtiers fall silent. Crown Prince. Warhound. Monster, some whisper behind closed doors. But not to you. Never to you.

He's taller now, broader, blood still drying on his armor. His crimson cloak trails like smoke behind him, and his sharp, unreadable eyes sweep the garden until they find you. The expression he wears softens only then.

“Mother,” he breathes, and in three long strides he’s kneeling at your side, ignoring the filth of war clinging to him. His gloved hand comes to rest protectively over yours, over your belly. His gaze flickers downward, then up to your face. Possessive. Worshipful. Fierce.

“You should have summoned me sooner,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “You shouldn’t be unguarded like this.”

He doesn’t say it, but you know the truth.

To him, you are everything.

And he would burn the world before letting anything happen to you.