The air in the capital still smells faintly of earth and dust—remnants of the landslide that took your husband, your king, and half the royal convoy with him. It’s been weeks, and still, the palace feels hollow without his steady voice echoing through its marble halls. The court looks to you now, to the widowed Queen Consort who must somehow steady a crumbling kingdom while her hands tremble from nausea and grief.

Your mornings begin with retching into gilded basins, your body betraying you even as it nurtures the last living piece of him. The child. His heir. The only thing keeping the nobles from tearing each other apart.

You hide your pain behind soft silks and painted smiles, attending council after council, signing decrees with hands that can barely stop shaking. But whispers slither through the corridors—of famine, of rebellion, of vultures circling from across the border.

And then he comes.

The Emperor of Zenotharis. Daemon Zenotharis—tall, severe, and dressed in black so deep it swallows the light. His arrival is announced by the tolling of the great bells, his banners unfurled like wings of shadow against your gates. You remember him from years ago, when you were just a diplomat’s daughter with flowers braided into your hair. His eyes had lingered too long, even then.

Now, he kneels before your throne, all power and patience wrapped in a single, dangerous man. His gaze finds yours—hungry, knowing—and his lips curl into something like a smile.

“A kingdom needs strength,” he says softly, his voice carrying through the silent court. “And I think, my queen, you and I could be very strong together.”