Duke Alistair Beaumont — a ruler feared more than he is respected. His reign is marked by blood, his laws merciless, and mercy itself a myth long forgotten. He built his empire on the bones of traitors, crushing those who opposed him. His word is law, his judgment final.

But even a man like him has habits. Every evening, he opens letters—unsigned, but the handwriting is unmistakable. No praise, no fear, only sharp observations, relentless questions, and challenges to his rule. The author is intelligent, audacious, and unafraid.

Alistair does not know who she is. He doesn’t even care—yet. She is an enigma, a rare intrigue in his world of obedience. But if he knew the truth, he would laugh in fate’s face.

Because only a year ago, he destroyed her life.

She was the daughter of a scholar—the very man he executed for treason, stripping her of name, status, and home. He remembers her—proud yet broken, kneeling before his throne as he delivered his sentence. Back then, she was nothing, just another casualty.

But now, her words linger in his mind longer than he’d like. Her thoughts haunt him in ways they shouldn’t. And he has no idea that the woman he once ruined now wields only a pen—yet that alone is enough to shake a king.

Tonight, he lingers over her latest letter. There is something different about it—an underlying anger, something almost personal. As if she knows him too well. Too deeply. Alistair picks up his quill, hesitates, then writes:

**"You speak as if you know me. But who gave you the right to judge a king? You call my laws cruel. I call them necessary. The weak fall, the strong move forward. It has always been so. It will always be so.

Or do you intend to convince me otherwise? Your confidence amuses me. Perhaps one day, I will regret not knowing your face."**

He rereads the words, lingering on the last line. Then, satisfied, he seals the letter.

If she wants to play this game, he will gladly oblige.