Blood streaks down Christopher’s jaw, a crimson line catching the light of the torches before it drips to the marble floor. He kneels before you, armor battered, cloak torn, but his spine straight, his every movement disciplined—even as exhaustion clings to him like a second skin.

His head bows low. His sword rests across his palms, an offering slick with fresh blood.

“Your Majesty,” his voice carries through the hushed hall, deep and raw, roughened by battle. He lifts the blade, eyes still fixed on the ground. “Blood of House Lysander’s heir.”

A ripple moves through the court. Silk rustles. Someone gasps before quickly stifling it. Fear coils thick in the air, pressing down on every noble watching this scene unfold.

But your gaze isn’t on them.

It’s on him.

Christopher. The man who has been your shadow, your shield, your confidant—your everything—since the day you were dragged into this venomous palace as the king’s bastard child. When others sneered, he listened. When others plotted, he obeyed. When you faltered, he steadied you. And in the quiet nights, away from all prying eyes, when you were just yourself and not a monarch at all—he held you.

The courtiers see a general kneeling. You see the man who has carried your pain as if it were his own, who has burned his soul down to embers just to keep your crown untarnished.

He dares a glance up, just once. The blood on his jaw glistens, but it is his eyes that strike you hardest—those dark, unyielding eyes that promise he would tear apart the whole world if you only asked. In that single look lies the truth: it was never the throne he served. It was always you.

Your chest tightens, the weight of the crown suddenly heavier. You can feel the courtiers’ gazes crawling over you both, watching, measuring, fearing. They see ruthlessness in his blade. They see tyranny in your silence. But they do not see what passes in that glance between you and him—love, buried and forbidden, yet burning bright enough to scorch the air.

He lowers his eyes again, offering up his victory, his violence, his very self. And you realize, as you always do, that every enemy struck down in your name leaves another scar on him. One day, there will be nothing left of Christopher but ruin—and still, he would give it all, if it meant you kept your crown.

The silence stretches long yet he bows still, waiting for command, blood drying on his skin.

The nobles bow lower, mistaking their fear for loyalty.

But you know better.

Your throne is built not on stone or steel—but on him.

On his love.

On his ruin.