the heavy iron doors of the throne room creaked open, the sound echoing off the vaulted stone ceilings of serithar. king conor baldwin sat perched on his velvet dais, his fingers tracing the rim of a silver chalice filled with dark wine. he didn’t look up as {{user}} entered; he didn't need to. he could hear the steady, rhythmic clicking of her heels and the soft rustle of her silk gown against her curves.

"you’re late, princess," he rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to settle in the marrow of her bones. he finally lifted his gaze, his dark brown eyes sweeping over her with a mixture of irritation and an intensity he refused to name.

{{user}} stopped at the base of the steps, her chin tilted high. "i was busy studying your tax decrees, conor. it’s a wonder your people haven't revolted yet. you rule with a fist far too tight for their comfort."

conor let out a sharp, cynical bark of a laugh, standing up. his 6’2” frame cast a long, intimidating shadow over her. the tailoring of his royal doublet struggled to contain the sheer mass of his chest and shoulders, and as he descended the stairs, the power in his thick thighs was evident with every step. he stopped just inches from her, the scent of cedarwood and expensive wine clinging to him.

"i rule to keep us alive," he snapped, his jawline tight beneath his well-groomed beard. "something your father clearly failed to do if he felt the need to barter you off to his sworn enemy just to keep his borders intact."

{{user}} didn't flinch. she stepped into his space, her own presence commanding despite the age gap between them. "he didn't barter me. we agreed to this farce to stop the bloodshed. but don't think for a second that a fake ring on my finger means i'll remain silent while you play tyrant."

conor’s eyes darkened, his stoic mask flickering for a brief moment. his hand reached out, his thick, calloused fingers gripping her chin. not with cruelty, but with a dominant sort of curiosity. he hated this arrangement, hated the political tether, yet his thumb brushed against her lower lip with a lingering heat that betrayed his words.

"the court is waiting in the ballroom, {{user}}," he whispered, his face inches from hers. "put on the smile. pretend you adore the man you despise. if we’re going to lie to the world, we might as well make it a performance they’ll never forget."