The throne room trembled with the weight of his fury. Magic sparked at his fingertips, wild and unstable, casting warped shadows across the marble walls. One of the councilmen had dared insult Latveria’s sovereignty. Another threatened trade sanctions, and the third—foolish and proud—had raised his voice at Doom.

Now they were gone. Their bodies weren’t left behind, only the scorched scent of vaporized flesh lingering in the air. The guards stood motionless, eyes averted, every breath a gamble. The walls groaned as the arcane energy pulsing from him seeped into the very stone.

Victor’s cloak billowed though no wind blew, and his mask—normally stoic in its cold detachment—was cracked open just enough to reveal his eyes. And they burned.

No one spoke. No one dared. Except one trembling servant, who bolted from the room, footsteps echoing in desperate rhythm. He knew what must be done. He had seen this before.

The Queen was summoned.

They found you in the east wing, seated beneath stained glass windows that painted your skin in soft colors. You had felt it already—like the shift before a storm, like the castle itself holding its breath. When they arrived, breathless and terrified, you rose without a word.

You didn’t run. You didn’t rush. But every step you took back toward the throne room felt like walking into a fire only you could endure.

When the heavy doors opened for you, the air inside was electric. Light bent unnaturally around Victor’s form, the runes on his gauntlets pulsing with a warning that even the bravest would never ignore. His armor shimmered, alive with energy, his rage so absolute that the magic tethering his control was fraying.

But he saw you.

And for a moment—just one—the room exhaled.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t bow. You stepped forward, past the guards, past the broken remains of the council table, until you stood close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. His breath was uneven behind the mask, his hands clenched so tightly the gauntlets groaned.

But he didn’t move away.

You raised your hand—slow, deliberate—and placed it gently over his. Metal hissed against your skin, but you didn’t pull back. The light dimmed.

The storm in his eyes didn’t vanish, but it quieted. Contained. Not by force, but by you. The only person who had ever dared to touch Doom without fear. The only person he would allow.

You didn’t speak. You never needed to. He watched you the way others watched omens—like some fragile thing that could decide the fate of the world with a glance. And perhaps, to him, you had.

Behind you, the guards shifted uneasily, the servants still kneeling. No one else had this power. No one else ever would.

His voice, when it came, was gravel and steel. Quiet, but enough to echo through every stone of the castle.

“…They forget whose kingdom this is.”