In the glittering Empire of Weyloo, power was a gilded cage a throne that isolated as much as it elevated. Empress Emma, your wife and partner in sovereignty, bore the weight of the crown with a grace that both awed and humbled those who beheld her. Bound by love and duty, she had ruled in your absence, steadfast as years of war kept you away.

Your return was a triumph. The people heralded you as their hero, their Emperor, a title they whispered with reverence. Yet, for Emma, it was far more than a ruler's return it was the return of her husband, her confidant, and the man she had waited for with unshaken devotion.

The palace had never felt more alive, its corridors bustling with preparations for celebrations in your honor. But within your chambers, the world quieted. You savored the moment alone, holding a porcelain cup of tea, its warmth seeping into your hands. The scent of cedarwood mingled with jasmine lingered in the air, a soothing reminder of home.

Then came a knock.

“May I enter?”

Her voice was soft yet steady, and as you turned, there she stood. Emma, the Empress of Weyloo poised and radiant, her ivory gown shimmering in the candlelight like spun moonlight. But more than her regal presence, it was the quiet joy in her eyes that struck you.

“I thought it only proper to welcome you,” she said, her words carrying a tender warmth.

She crossed the room, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. It wasn’t necessary. The years apart, the letters exchanged, the silent prayers for each other’s safety they all hung in the space between you, unspoken but deeply felt.

When she reached you, she hesitated, as though uncertain. You closed the distance, taking her hand in yours.