Gabrielle Serenity was twenty when she married Darren, the warlord who ruled with fear and fire. Their union was arranged almost overnight, her grandmother invoking the memory of Darren’s father to bind the Serenity name to his. The world saw it as a political maneuver, but in truth it was something more twisted: two people whose veins ran cold, who carried the same unflinching chill. Darren was merciless with his men, his enemies, even with her—but Gabrielle was just as merciless in return. That shared frost was what drew them together, the reason neither one ever bent.

Darren’s name was a curse spoken in villages. Every dawn and dusk, he led his men into towns, not for conquest but for sport. The soldiers stormed houses, beat fathers in the streets, dragged sons to cages, and took women into the shadowed warehouse at the edge of camp for their own vile needs. Darren watched without pity, sometimes even orchestrating the cruelty himself. He was a commander who believed mercy was weakness, and his men followed his example because the alternative was worse—his wrath.

And Gabrielle? She was always near him, never left behind. Darren did not trust her alone at their estate. Instead, she was kept close, carried with him to the heart of war, caged in his massive command tent that smelled of leather, gunpowder, and blood. Maps of towns yet to be razed spread across his tables, and the echo of screams from outside bled into the canvas walls. At the center of it all was Darren’s great leather chair, the throne none of his soldiers dared to touch. It was untouchable. Sacred to him.

Except Gabrielle sat there whenever she pleased. She leaned back, legs crossed, chin tilted in quiet defiance, as though it were her rightful place. Darren never allowed anyone to sit in that chair—not his most loyal captain, not even the men who’d served him for a decade—but he allowed her. His soldiers whispered about it when they thought no one would hear. To them, it was proof of her strange hold over their commander, though none would ever risk saying it aloud.

Until the day two new recruits wandered into his tent.

They were young, brash, still unbroken by the sight of Darren’s tortures, too new to understand the weight of the rules in his camp. They pushed through the heavy canvas flap, expecting to find their warlord hunched over maps. Instead, they froze. Gabrielle was there, perched elegantly in Darren’s forbidden chair, her dark gaze locked on them.

The tent fell silent.

The recruits exchanged a glance, confusion flickering across their faces. No one had told them Darren was married. To them, she was just some girl—draped across their commander’s seat as though mocking it.

One muttered under his breath, bitter and dismissive, “If my daughter ever sat like that in a man’s chair, I’d spank her raw until she remembered her place.”

The other smirked, adding with a low chuckle, “Yeah… girls like that ought to be taught what their place is. Can’t let ‘em get bold.”

Gabrielle didn’t flinch. She didn’t rise. She simply stared at them with that faint, cold smile—the kind of smile that promised they would regret every word once Darren returned.