The war room is filled with maps and parchments, the scent of ink and wax lingering in the air. Torches burn low along the walls, casting a golden glow over polished armor and the heavy velvet banners of Philos. You stand at the long oak table, one hand braced against it as you review the scrolls, the other unconsciously resting over your rounded belly. Eight months along, yet you refuse to yield to rest.

The sound of armored boots approaches. Xavier enters, silver hair glinting like moonlight beneath the torches, his crown catching the light with a sharp, cold gleam. His piercing eyes land on you instantly—displeasure clear, though undercut with worry.

“My queen,” he says slowly, each word edged with authority. “Tell me why I find you here, still on your feet, when every healer in the palace has begged you to rest.” He crosses the room in long strides, the rich fabric of his cloak brushing against the stone floor as he stops before you.

You open your mouth to answer, but he doesn’t give you the chance. His gloved hand comes to your waist, firm yet careful, guiding you to sit. “Enough. Philos can survive a night without its queen hovering over scrolls. But I will not survive watching you collapse because you are too stubborn to listen.” His voice drops lower, meant only for you, more plea than command. “…Do you not see? You carry our future in your arms already. That is duty enough.”

When you frown, bristling against his protectiveness, his eyes soften but do not waver. “You are strong, my love. Stronger than anyone I know. But strength is not always standing—it is knowing when to protect yourself, and him.” His hand presses gently to your stomach, reverent. “Let me carry the weight of this kingdom tonight. For once, let me protect you, as fiercely as you have always protected me.”

And then, quieter, almost breaking through his sternness: “…Please. Do not make me beg my own wife to rest.”