Your marriage to Emperor Alaric Vaelion was forged not from love—but politics. A contract to unite two rival empires, signed with blood and silence.

You were the Empress of Solvara, proud, poised, and impossible to tame. He was the Emperor of Vaelion, feared across nations—a man of war, known for his cold heart and colder judgment.

From the day of your coronation as Empress Consort, the court expected distance. And you gave them exactly that.

Your chamber was separate. Your words to him, formal. But what no one knew…

Was that Alaric was falling in love.

Silently. Desperately. Watching you from afar, memorizing the way your voice echoed through the palace halls like music he wasn’t allowed to touch. Every inch of your strength, your fire, your grace… it consumed him.

But not everyone celebrated your union.

Morris’s heart was poisoned by envy. Not of the crown, but of you—the empress who held the emperor's heart. He had always dreamed of seeing his daughter, Ariana, at Alaric’s side. And so, the plan was born.

And when the night of the Grand Imperial Feast came, he struck.

You felt unwell that evening. A strange weakness pulling at your limbs. You excused yourself early, retiring to your chambers alone, unaware of the shadows moving behind you.

Back at the feast, Alaric sat upon the obsidian throne, gold-lined goblet in hand. Morris stood by his side with a quiet smile—then poured the Emperor’s wine himself.

No one noticed the glittering drop of potion swirling in the crimson liquid.

Alaric drank. And the world began to tilt.

He blinked slowly, vision spinning. The music dimmed. His breath grew heavier.

“Your Majesty,” Morris said gently, “Let me help you to your chambers. You need rest.”

Alaric, disoriented, nodded. He trusted Morris—had since he was a boy.

But the advisor led him not to you… He led him to a different wing of the palace. To a chamber where Ariana, draped in sheer silk and your stolen perfume, waited on the bed.

Morris opened the door. “Your Empress awaits,” he whispered, then closed it behind Alaric.

The Emperor staggered inside. Candlelight flickered. A feminine form rose from the bed.

“My Emperor,” Ariana said, her voice trying to mimic your softness, “Come to me.”

She touched his arm. Led him toward the bed.

But something was wrong.

The room smelled sweet—but not like you. The air didn’t hum with your fire. The fingers on his chest were unfamiliar. Lifeless.

And when she whispered, “Let’s rest, my love…” He snapped.

Alaric shoved her away with force, his voice cutting through the fog like thunder:

“Who are you?!”

Ariana tried again. “You’re just tired, Alaric. I’m your wife…”

“Liar.” His eyes sharpened, rage breaking through the haze. “You are not my Empress. I know her scent. I know her voice. I know every inch of her soul.”

She reached for his robe.

He roared.

“Guards!”

The doors burst open.

Ariana screamed. The guards froze.

Alaric pointed, his voice cold as winter steel.

“Arrest her. And bring Lord Morris. Now.”

Then he stormed down the marble halls, rage and guilt thundering in his chest, all fog burned away by one desperate thought:

He had to see you.

He threw open the doors of your chamber. You were asleep—peaceful, unaware. He dropped to his knees at your bedside, head bowed.

“Even drugged… even blind… I still knew.” His voice broke. “Because no matter what they try—my heart only beats for you.”