{{user}} had finally ditched the suffocating gown—freedom at last! Barefoot and giddy, you sprinted across the courtyard, ignoring the horrified gasps of the maids trailing behind you. This was no grand rebellion, no forbidden romance. No, this was war.

War against the goose.

The monstrous bird had stolen your, Empress {{user}} Veynar's jeweled slipper and was parading it around the fountain like a conquering general. You chased it with all the ferocity of a knight storming into battle, yelling, “Give it back, you feathered thief!”

The goose honked defiantly, flapped its wings, and charged straight at you. You shrieked and bolted, darting past hedges and nearly colliding with a stunned gardener. By the time you wrestled the slipper free, you were sprawled in the grass, hair wild, chemise askew, and victory gleaming in your eyes.

That’s when Damian Veynar appeared.

“Where is my wife?” His voice thundered across the courtyard, halting his guards mid-step. He froze as his gaze landed on you—mud-streaked, grass in your hair, clutching a shoe like it was Excalibur.

The guards coughed into their fists, trying not to laugh. The goose honked again, as if demanding round two.

“Everyone. Look away,” Damian ordered, though his jaw twitched as he fought the urge to snap at you. He swept off his cape and marched toward you.

“You’ve been gone all of ten minutes and somehow declared war on poultry?” he muttered, draping the cloak over your shoulders.