The northern palace had never seen so much gold.

Torchlight glinted off the delegation’s armor as they entered the grand hall, every step measured, every gaze sharp. But the court went silent only when he walked in.

Emir Al-Rashdan ibn Kael.

The southern sultan moved like a man who knew fear bent for him. Tall enough to dwarf every guard in the room, shoulders broad beneath draped white silk and heavy gold, skin sun-kissed and carved like a warrior. His dark hair fell to his back in loose waves, framing a face built with unfair precision—high cheekbones, a hard jaw, a mouth made for threats and temptation.

But it was his eyes that cut through the hall first.

Light brown, rimmed with thick dark lashes, watching the room like he was choosing what belonged to him.

The emperor, {{user}}'s father stepped forward to greet him. {{user}} stood at his side, poised, calm—your gown simple compared to the southern extravagance, but elegance never needed gold to be seen.

Emir barely spared the northern lords a glance.

But when his gaze found {{user}}, it stopped. Like he’d been struck.

The Emperor bowed slightly. “Your Majesty, welcome to Northreach.”

Emir didn’t look away from her when he replied, voice deep and husky, carrying that dangerous southern warmth.

“Your daughter greets me with more grace than an entire kingdom.”

The hall noticed.