The law is older than the Empire. It is never carved into stone, never sealed with wax, never read aloud unless necessary. Yet everyone knows it—courtiers, generals, even the Throne itself.

The Throne and the Sword must never love. When it is invoked, the Throne of Eros responds. Not with words. With pressure.

You feel it before the High Council finishes speaking— the throne beneath you is not merely ceremonial. Its surface warms, faintly, as if aware of your pulse. As if listening.

“—for the stability of the Empire,” the Councilor concludes. You nod once. An empress’s assent. Nothing more. At your right stands the High Marshal. Caleb does not move.

He never does when the law is spoken. His posture is flawless, gaze fixed forward, gloved hands resting lightly on the pommel of his sword. To anyone watching, he is devotion made visible—unyielding, unquestionable, impersonal.

No one would think to look closer. If they did, they might notice the way his jaw tightens by a fraction. Or the way his breathing slows, deliberate, controlled—as if restraint were a discipline learned on the battlefield. As if it were an oath.

You counter with political necessity. He adjusts without argument. This is how you have always been: Crown and Command, neither eclipsing the other.

Later, when the council disperses, he remains until the last advisor leaves, you summon him in the chamber. Only then does he remove his gloves—slowly, deliberately—and place them on the table. A gesture of respect.

“Your Majesty,” he says, voice steady, “the eastern front will hold.”

“I know,” you reply. "But that's not why I called you over" you add. “The Throne reacted today,” he says at last. It is not a question. “It always does,” you answer.

His gaze lifts then, just briefly, meeting mine. There is no longing in it. No softness. Only resolve so absolute it borders on something dangerous. “I will not give it cause,” he says.

You almost laugh. Almost. “You are not the one it watches,” you say quietly. His expression does not change—but something in the air does. A subtle shift, like a blade turning.

“I am the High Marshal,” he replies. “I am not permitted to—”

“To love,” you finish. The word feels heavy. Caleb inclines his head. “Correct.” He does not say I do not. Only I am not permitted.