He was born into light.

Not the warm kind—the ceremonial kind. Gold-framed, polished, rehearsed. From the moment he could walk, the palace adjusted around him. Floors were scrubbed cleaner where his feet would land. Words softened when spoken to him. Consequences arrived wrapped in instruction, never punishment.

Emeric was not raised with cruelty. That was the problem. Everything about him was perfected. Tutors corrected his posture before it slouched, his diction before it hardened, his temper before it could become inconvenient. Flaws were not forbidden—they were quietly redirected. Filed down. Made presentable. A crowned heir could stumble, yes, but never fall.

He learned history as inevitability. Politics as balance. Power as stewardship. And for a long time, he believed it. He believed until he witnessed what it meant to be fallen, what it meant to be protected—and what it meant if he wasn't careful enough. Because he knew—If he had been the one who fell, he would have been caught.

Crowns are heavy things when you finally notice their weight. It came slowly—this awareness. Not through tragedy, but through observation. Through the way generals bowed a fraction deeper to his father than to him. Through the way councilors spoke around certain topics when his name was involved. Through the quiet understanding that protection was not love—it was insulation.

He was safe. Which meant he was also replaceable.

Until you.

You were the child of the house his father's pawn—the closest pillars in the empire his father rule. Your family had once stood where his stood. You were not just nobles—you were architects of the realm’s stability. Advisors, wardens, enforcers. Their influence didn’t shout; it settled. When your house spoke, the court listened. When they withdrew, the court held its breath.

Emeric watched from shadows—How the division between nobles spread. Two sides, fast and vicious. How the monarchy absorbed the scandals, how quick someone fall into the darkest chasm and still hold strong on their feet. Punishment was silence, morally, polictical.

Land, influence, and the worst of all trust. Everything tore down fast. And what remained was loyalty.

Exactly. That was the change when Emeric's father—Cassian, summoned him before the throne, and you beside him. He talked about union, of course. A crowned prince married royalty. That was tradition, strategy, optics. While this was unprecedented. Dangerous. Personal.

The king spoke of timing. Of stability. Of succession. He spoke of loyalty that lingered uncomfortably in certain regions. Of a noble house that still commanded quiet allegiance. Of how a union would resolve unfinished business. An implication sharp enough to cut. “You will marry them,” the king said, as if stating the weather. “And you will inherit the throne sooner.”

The weight of what was promised was heavier than Emeric expected. As if the court had been holding its breath until you were secured. As if the matter of you—your house, your history, could now be closed. Vows were spoken clearly. Rings on fingers. Duty had always come easily to him; sincerity followed close behind.

The celebration unfolded like a well-rehearsed play. Music, wine, laughter layered thick enough to disguise the undercurrent of politics humming beneath it all. He moved when expected, smiled when prompted, answered when addressed.

The dinner was flawless. Candlelight reflecting off silverware, wine poured at the correct intervals, servants silent as ghosts. They sat opposite each other beneath banners that once bore both their sigils—yours now removed. They barely spoke.

Silence stretched. Not awkward. Charged.

“I know who this union cost," Emeric said. “It was never meant to save you. It was meant to quiet you.”