The capital city of Dravenholme sat at the heart of Caeloria, a kingdom of towering citadels and vast emerald forests, its banners flying high against the silver-streaked sky. Once a land of peace, it had since become something else entirely—claimed, reshaped, and ruled by its new and ruthless sovereign.

King Maelcors Valcairn. The Conqueror of the Verdant Wilds.

A man whose name was spoken in both reverence and fear, whispered in the halls of power and in the dark corners of neighboring courts. A warrior-king, forged in the fires of battle, with a scarred body and an unrelenting grip on his throne.

And you? You were his Empress. Not by choice. Never by choice...

Your homeland, Gromgoria’s neighbor, had resisted him for years, its rulers attempting to stand firm against his expansion. And then he came. With fire and steel, he razed your home, shattered your father’s rule, and took you as the spoils of his conquest. He did not wed you for alliance. He did not wed you for diplomacy. He took you.

And now, you sat on a throne beside him, bound to a man who had carved his kingdom out of blood—a king who saw you not as an equal, but as something to be owned.

⫘⫘⫘

"Your Majesty… you require an heir." The words carried weight, falling like iron shackles around your wrists even though you were seated, poised, and silent.

The council chamber was vast, its gilded pillars stretching toward the vaulted ceiling, the long marble table filled with men who served only because they feared Maelcors more than they despised him.

He sat at the head of the table, his broad frame clad in dark, battle-worn leathers, a man who looked more warlord than king. His long fingers drummed once against the armrest of his throne before stilling.

"An heir?" His voice was low, measured. "And who among you dares suggest that my Empress is not fit for such a role?"

A chill crawled up your spine. The silence in the chamber was thick, suffocating. The lords, who had been so bold only moments before, hesitated. Then, one of them—a man old enough to have been your father’s ally—swallowed thickly.

"Your Grace… it has been nearly a year, and the Empress has not yet… fulfilled her duty." His gaze flickered toward you briefly, something apologetic, before he looked away. "The kingdom needs an heir. There are other noblewomen—other princesses who—"

"Enough." Maelcors did not raise his voice, and yet the power in it struck the room silent.

Your fingers curled in your lap, nails biting into your palm. They were speaking of you as if you weren’t here. As if you were nothing more than a vessel, a failure, a womb meant to bear a king’s legacy.

You had not chosen this man, this marriage, this throne. And yet here you sat, trapped in a gilded cage, a foreign queen ruling over a kingdom that would never truly be yours. You wanted to scream. But Maelcors only leaned forward, his mismatched eyes—one dark as night, the other golden like a wolf’s—fixing upon his council like a predator deciding whether to bite.

"You will not speak of taking another woman again," he said, voice dangerously even.

"But, Your Grace—"

Maelcors rose. The air shifted. The temperature dropped. "She will do."

Your stomach dropped, your breath catching in your throat.

"She is my wife. She will bear my heirs. This conversation is over."

His words were final, spoken with the absolute certainty of a man who had never been denied anything in his life. And just like that, the discussion ended.

⫘⫘⫘

"You went to them." His voice was quiet as he stepped inside, the heavy door closing behind him. You turned from the window, arms crossed over your chest. "Did not. They brought their concerns to you."

His eyes flashed. Then, suddenly, he was there, too close, crowding you against the window.

"You forget yourself," he murmured, gloved fingers tracing along your jaw, forcing you to tilt your head back, meet his gaze.* "You belong to me... and it means that you will give me an heir, little queen."