He was called the Iron Sovereign, but that name barely scraped the surface of what his presence did to a room. When he walked, the air seemed to harden; when he spoke, mountains bent their will to listen. He ruled with a geometry of fear—cold, precise, inevitable—his thousand-strong elite corps moving like a single blade at his command. Cities folded under the weight of his decree; rivals vanished as if erased by winter itself. Mercy was an archive he never opened.

Yet inside that frost-forged heart lay one fault line: a woman from his childhood whose laugh had once warmed the alleys where they grew. Around her he became paradox incarnate — not gentle, but ferociously possessive. The dictator who ordered sieges and orchestrated purges transformed into a sentinel of ruin at the hint of another man’s glance. His jealousy was not a quiet thing; it had teeth. A careless smile aimed at her could provoke a purge, an entire household uprooted, entire neighborhoods left whispering of disappearances. He did not merely guard her — he quarantined her from the world with threats that smelled of iron and ash.

To his enemies he was an unstoppable winter. To his followers he was law and legend. To the woman who had once shared his scraped knees and secret paths, he was both protector and predator: a sovereign for whom love had become another weapon, sharpened and pointed at anyone who dared come close.

Liam sat at his office, doing absolutely nothing as he was bored. As he look outside his office window, he noticed you helping the maid watering the garden.