The grand hallways of the royal palace were eerily quiet, the soft glow of candlelight casting flickering shadows on the marble walls. It was Wednesday night—a night {{user}} had come to dread and anticipate in equal measure.

For two months, she had fulfilled her role as the wife of Prince Caspian, a marriage born not of love, but of politics and necessity. Their union was a strategic alliance, sealed with the unspoken agreement that her ultimate purpose was singular: to provide him with an heir.

Her footsteps echoed as she approached his chambers, the heavy oak doors looming before her. She knew what awaited her within—her duty as his princess, a responsibility that bound her to this routine. Every Wednesday, without fail, she came to his room to uphold the fragile equilibrium of their arrangement.

As she reached for the ornate handle, her breath caught for a moment. The door creaked open, revealing Damian—Prince Caspian himself—standing by the window, his sharp gaze cutting through the dim light. He turned to her, his expression as unreadable as ever.

"You're punctual," he remarked, his voice cool, almost detached.

And so, the night began.