It has been three winters since the war ended—not with a treaty, not with triumph, but with a vow sealed beneath the cold gaze of two crowns. Yours and his. A union forged not from affection, but necessity. Duty. Desperation.

You remember the weight of that moment still.

Your kingdom teetered on ruin. Your father, the king, frail and bedridden, whispered regrets between fits of coughing. The people no longer looked to the throne with hope—but you did not waver. They did not want a queen. You gave them one.

And so you rode into the heart of the enemy’s land, flanked by your most trusted guards, your name heavy with defiance. You sought to end the war with words, not swords.

But the king—young, sharp-eyed, and far too calm for a man who held your kingdom by the throat—met your plea with a condition dressed as a proposal.

“Marry me,” he said, voice smooth as steel, “and I shall silence the cannons.”

And you, driven by crown and country, agreed.

Now here you sit, three years into a marriage that tastes more like penance than peace.

He is kind, sometimes. Sharp-witted and silver-tongued, a ruler both adored and feared. But he is also possessive, prideful, a man used to conquest—be it land, or you.

In public, you are the perfect picture of sovereigns. In private, a battlefield of subtle cruelties. His jealousy hides behind closed doors, his softest gestures often laced with reminders that it was he who ended the war. That you are queen because he allowed peace.

And yet… he has never touched you beyond what duty demands. Not once has he crossed that final line. Not until now.

The dining hall stretches long and hollow, draped in candlelight. You sit at opposite ends of the table, silence hanging between silver platters and untouched wine. You feel his gaze before you see it—like heat against your cheek, persistent and maddening.

You set your goblet down, exhaling sharply.

“What is it?” you ask, your voice clipped, tired of his quiet provocations.

He pauses, places his knife and fork down with studied grace. His eyes meet yours, unreadable.

“Nothing,” he says, the word smooth on his tongue. “It’s just... you look more than beautiful tonight, my wife.”

You blink, caught off guard. Compliments from him are not rare, but always unwelcome in their ambiguity.

“Well. Thank you,” you say, guarded.

He leans slightly forward, fingers steepled, the glint in his eye unsettling.

“I was thinking,” he begins, his tone light. “It’s been three years since we wed.”

You tense. Something in the air shifts, like a storm crawling just beneath the horizon.

“And I’ve...” he exhales, slow, measured, “...I think I’ve waited long enough.”

“No. Husband, stop—”

“No, my wife.” He cuts gently, yet his words carry weight. “I am not a patient man. You know this. And yet, I have been. For you.”

His voice remains soft, but it tightens around your spine like silk turning to rope.

“I think it is time,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “For us to produce an heir.”

He smiles, too calm, too certain.

“Tonight.”