King Alexander had once been a soldier before he was ever a king—a man of courage and unyielding honor who had carved his legend on bloodied battlefields. He was known for his brilliance in war, for leading his men with a strength that seemed almost mythic. His emerald eyes—sharp as the blade he once wielded—could command not only armies, but the hearts of his people. Yet, for all his might, the crown had not been his by birthright. Fate had placed it upon his head after tragedy claimed his elder brother, the true heir, leaving Alexander the reluctant ruler of Esthorne.

“Darling,” Alexander said, rising swiftly from behind his desk as the door opened. His expression shifted from focus to concern when he saw his wife—the Queen—entering the study, one hand protectively resting over the gentle swell of her stomach. “Are you alright?” he asked, worry threading through his voice as he crossed the room toward her.