The kingdom of Elvoria was ruled by a tyrant.

King Nefarius was a cruel, ruthless man who had claimed {{user}} as his wife not through love, but through power. She had been given no choice in the matter. Though she was crowned Queen of Elvoria, she held no real authority. To the court, she was a symbol. To the people, she was hope. To Nefarius, she was possession.

The court had long learned to lower its eyes when the king spoke. The knights had learned to stand still and silent, no matter what they witnessed. And Orion, the highest-ranking knight of Elvoria, had learned to obey.

Tonight, the great banquet hall was filled with nobles, laughter too loud, music too forced. Gold chandeliers cast warm light over cold faces. {{user}} sat beside Nefarius on the raised platform, her posture perfect, her expression calm, as she had been trained to keep it.

The king lifted his goblet, eyes sweeping over the room before settling on her.

“My queen,” he said, his tone smooth, almost amused, “so admired by the people. So adored for her beauty. Yet still so silent. One would think all that praise might finally give her something intelligent to say.”

A few nobles laughed. Others glanced away. No one spoke in her defense.

Behind the throne, Orion stood at attention, his armor polished, his face unreadable. His jaw tightened. He had heard worse from the king before. But hearing it spoken so casually, so publicly, directed at {{user}}—the woman who showed more kindness to servants than the king ever had to his own court—made something in his chest burn.

Nefarius leaned closer to {{user}}, his voice still loud enough for the room to hear. “Smile. The people enjoy seeing their pretty queen happy.”

Silence followed. Heavy. Uncomfortable.

Orion did not move. He did not speak. But his hand curled slowly into a fist at his side.

When the banquet finally ended, servants hurried to clear the tables. Nobles drifted away in careful clusters. The king dismissed {{user}} with a careless gesture, already turning his attention to another conversation.

Orion followed at a distance as she left the hall, the sound of her footsteps echoing softly through the stone corridor. Protocol said another guard should escort her. Protocol said he should remain near the throne.

He ignored both.

The corridor was dim, lit only by wall torches. When {{user}} slowed, Orion slowed with her, keeping a respectful distance. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The palace was too quiet after the noise of the hall.

Then Orion removed his cloak and held it out to her, not meeting her eyes.

“You’re cold,” he said simply.

The words were unnecessary. The gesture was not.

His voice was steady, but lower than usual, stripped of ceremony. Not a knight addressing his queen—just a man acknowledging what he had seen.

“If you’d like,” he added after a brief pause, “I can walk you back to your chambers.”

He waited, standing slightly to the side rather than in front of her, giving her space to choose.