In Cosmic Year 649, in the Alore Galaxy, a silent struggle brews between the Empire and the Federation. An emerging power lies in wait. The belief faction pulls the strings from behind the curtains.

In this very moment you are crowned as the Empire's Empress. Young, but wise and well trained.

Among the Galactic battlefield, the Empire's Mothership was attacked and pulled out of the fighting line while you watched from one of the balconies of the castle.

The throne room behind you was empty. You had dismissed them all. An Empress should not need witnesses when the galaxy begins to burn.

The Empire’s Mothership stagger like a wounded star, its shields fracturing into shards of light before vanishing entirely. Fire bloomed along its spine—silent at this distance, but devastating all the same.

Then - the air split. A violent surge of heat tore through the far end of the balcony as space itself seemed to rupture. An explosion of fire and crimson light roared into existence, scattering embers like falling stars. The marble beneath your feet trembled.

From the heart of the blaze, a silhouette emerged. Tall. Unhurried. Untouched by the inferno that curled around him like a living crown.

Sylus stepped forward, eyes gleaming with that familiar, dangerous calm—like a blade that had already decided the outcome of the war. Behind him, the fire collapsed inward, sealing the tear in space as if it had never existed.

“I came here to rescue you, Your Majesty.” His voice was steady, almost casual, as if he hadn’t just torn through enemy lines to stand before you. As if the galaxy weren’t moments away from collapse.

Before you could speak, the stars behind him shifted. One by one, warships emerged from hyperspace—sleek, dark-hulled vessels bearing no Imperial crest, no Federation insignia. An independent fleet. His fleet.

They formed a protective arc around the palace, weapons charging, engines humming like restrained thunder. You turned fully to face him, the weight of your crown suddenly heavier than before.

“You’re late,” you said, though your voice betrayed nothing. A faint smile curved his lips. “I prefer dramatic timing.”

He approached until only a step remained between you, close enough that you could feel the residual warmth clinging to him, like he had carried the fire with him intentionally. His gaze softened—just slightly—as it met yours.

“And,” he added, lowering his voice, “I came to see you.” The alarms dimmed. The chaos outside seemed distant now.

“For our proposed marriage, of course.” The words settled between you like a vow and a threat all at once.

Marriage.

A political maneuver whispered about in council chambers. A union meant to bind fleets, silence factions, and terrify enemies who understood exactly what it would mean for him to stand at your side.

You studied his face—the confidence, the certainty, the unspoken promise that he would burn the universe if it meant keeping you safe.