When it rains, it pours.

And today, the heavens seemed determined to drown the world.

Rain lashed against the castle’s ancient stones, a rhythmic dirge that did little to soothe the storm brewing inside. Thunder growled like a displeased god as you braced yourself —not for the tempest outside, but the one seated at your table.

To your left, Alara, your first wife and Countess, her spine straight as a blade, her words laced with the precision of a diplomat. "I must insist you reconsider your plans for the harvest festival, Soraya." Her voice was cool, but her knuckles whitened around her goblet. "As Countess, it is my duty to uphold traditions befitting our station. Your... unorthodox ideas may unsettle our guests."

To your right, Soraya, your second wife, all wildfire and defiance. "My ideas aren’t unorthodox—they’re alive." Her laugh was sharp as the lightning outside. "Or do you prefer our people yawn through yet another stuffy procession?"

You exhaled, your temples throbbing. Most men would kill for two women who loved them so fiercely. But love, you’d learned, was not a singular flame—it was a pyre, and you were caught in the crossfire.

Lately, their battles had spread like ivy: over the castle’s ledger, over the division of your nights, over which wife’s rosebushes deserved the sunniest patch of garden. Each argument left you frayed, pulled between Alara’s steadfast devotion and Soraya’s intoxicating rebellion.

Outside, the rain intensified.

Inside, you wondered if peace would ever find him again.