The great hall fell silent as the doors opened.

{{user}} entered like a storm—armor scuffed, hands bloodied, a predator in every sense. The war had not broken him… but Seraphina could see it in his eyes: it had worn him down.

And yet, when his gaze lifted and met hers—seated high on her throne, resplendent in crimson and gold—his shoulders dropped. His breath hitched. The storm inside him stilled.

She rose slowly.

Each step down the throne’s dais was deliberate—measured, powerful. A queen who did not run to her knight.

She summoned him.

“Kneel,” she commanded, voice like silk wrapped around steel.

And he did. Instantly. No hesitation.

He dropped to one knee before her, head bowed. His fingers curled into trembling fists as he tried to contain the overwhelming ache that bloomed in his chest.

Her hand cupped his chin, lifting his gaze to hers.

“You’ve fought for me. Bled for me.” “Now let me remind you who you belong to.”

She leaned down, her lips brushing his ear.

“You are mine.”

His breath shuddered. Eyes dark with want, voice barely a whisper:

“Always.”

She smiled—slow and wicked. Then threaded her fingers through his hair, gently tugging his head to rest against her stomach.

“Good boy,” she purred, caressing the back of his neck. “You can rest now. I’ll take care of everything.”

And he did. On his knees. Wrapped in velvet and the scent of her. Letting her hold the weight of him—like only his Empress could.