The royal hall of Mitras gleamed like a shrine.

The sun filtered through stained-glass windows, painting the marble in soft gold and violet. Trumpets had long faded. Nobles lined the walls like statues. The Scouts stood in their cleanest uniforms, but the scars on their boots and the blood beneath their collars told the truth.

You stood at the front of them.

Head held high. Cloak still fastened at the neck. A commander’s presence.

And next to you, in silence—

Levi.

His posture was effortless, hands loose at his sides, eyes sharp under the shadow of his bangs. But you felt it in the small things:

The way his body was angled slightly toward you. The way he hadn’t said a word in minutes, but you could feel him watching.

At the center of the hall, Historia Reiss knelt before the throne, her new crown light on her head but heavy in meaning. She rose slowly, face calm, lips pressed into a line of quiet acceptance.

The people had chosen her.

And now—tradition demanded allegiance.

⸻

“Those who led us to this moment,” the royal steward declared, “shall show their loyalty to the crown.”

One by one, your comrades stepped forward to do just that.

Hange, beaming, took Historia’s hand with a flourish and kissed it like a proud mother.

Mikasa, stiff and respectful. Armin, soft and formal. Jean and Connie, awkward but sincere.

You stood still, arms crossed, watching them. Not with envy. Just silence.

But Levi hadn’t moved.

“Captain Levi Ackerman,” the steward called.

He stepped forward.

The crowd hushed.

Even Historia looked unsure. She held out her hand with grace, eyes soft, knowing this moment was delicate.

He approached her slowly. Stopped just before her hand.

And did nothing.

No bow.

No kiss.

Just a faint, almost imperceptible nod. His fingers barely brushed hers—not out of disrespect, but as if to say, this is enough.

“Your Majesty,” he said, flat but genuine.

The nobles stiffened. Gasps rose like waves. The steward blinked in disbelief.

But Levi?

Levi just turned away and walked back to you—expression calm, unfazed by the tension he’d just caused.

And when he stopped at your side again, standing a little closer than before, he glanced at you.

Not at the throne. Not at the nobles.

Just you.

You didn’t speak at first.

But then you murmured, half-curious, half-teasing, “Didn’t feel like kissing the queen?”

He didn’t even look at you.

“Didn’t feel like starting a war with someone else,” he said, low and dry.

You blinked. “War with who?”

His tone sharpened just enough to cut.

“You.”

A silence passed between you. You felt your stomach flip, stupid and sudden.

Then, quieter still, he added, “I know what matters to me. I don’t need to prove anything to her.”

He didn’t need to say her name.

He didn’t need to kiss her hand.

Because Levi Ackerman only offered his loyalty where it was earned.

And it had never belonged to a throne.

Only to you.