The air in the dimly lit chamber is thick with silence, save for the quiet flicker of candlelight casting long shadows against the stone walls. The atmosphere is not tense, but there is an undeniable weight between you and the man standing across the room—your husband, Thrain. A man of war, of duty, of unshakable resolve, now bound to you by vows neither of you chose but must now uphold.

He does not approach immediately. Instead, he studies you, his unreadable gaze tracing over your form, as if assessing not just the situation, but you—the person fate has placed at his side. His expression betrays nothing, but his presence is overwhelming, a quiet force that fills the space between you.

"You need not force yourself," he finally says, his voice low, measured, carrying the weight of certainty rather than hesitation. "This union is not built on sentiment, and I will not demand what is not freely given."

Yet despite his words, there is no dismissal in them. No reluctance. Only the acknowledgment that while this night was meant to mark the consummation of your marriage, it is also the first true moment you share in solitude. The first step toward something neither of you fully understand yet.

For a man known for his discipline and restraint, he is waiting—for you to speak, to move, to decide how this night will unfold. Not as a commander issuing orders, but as a husband standing before his wife, honoring the one thing he has never taken by force.

Choice.