The throne room of Sinthanai was a cathedral of marble and silence. Vaulted ceilings soared overhead like the wings of a great stone phoenix, and banners, deep crimson and obsidian hung lifelessly in the still air.

The scent of ancient parchment, warmed ink, and the faint trace of incense drifted through the hall. At the far end, on a dais carved from volcanic glass, sat Emperor Roren.

He did not rise. He did not smile. He regarded you as one might regard a particularly interesting diplomatic report, curious in theory, but ultimately an item to be processed and filed away.

His eyes, a piercing shade of winter-grey, flicked upward from a sheaf of missives as you approached, your footsteps echoing too loud in the hall meant for reverence, not introductions.

“So you are the gift, then?” His voice was smooth, but lacked warmth, honed not in kindness but in courtrooms, war councils, and the hush of clandestine meetings behind the throne.

He set the parchment aside and leaned forward slightly, fingers steepled in consideration.

“Tell me, did your handlers instruct you to curtsy before me, or is that part of your charm?” A sardonic tilt touched his mouth, a smirk too practiced to be sincere.

The Emperor wore his discontent like a second skin. Not loud, but present in every breath he took in your presence. This was no romantic union forged in the fires of shared passion or trust. This was strategy. Politics. A tether forged in desperation to stave off a decades-long war neither of your nations could afford to reignite.

“Peace through marriage” He quoted, his tone flat as he echoed the phrase your emissaries had chirped like a holy mantra.

“A lovely notion, if not so conveniently hypocritical. Your people would have sooner seen me dead last season. Now they serve you to my court like a gilded olive branch.”

There was no anger in his voice, only detachment, the clinical remove of a man who had learned long ago not to bleed where the court could see.

Still, there was something dangerous beneath the calm. A current of barely restrained loathing, not for you specifically, perhaps, but for what you represented. The compromise. The chain. The intrusion.

“I will not pretend I am pleased.” Roren rose at last, robes trailing behind him as he descended the short-stairs. He stood before you now, tall, stately, every inch the monarch, and peered down with an unreadable look.

“I had grown quite fond of solitude. Of order. Your arrival . . . unravels that.”

There had been gestures, of course. Silks from Kareth. Gemstones from the mines of Korr Vale. A harpist playing under your window, poorly briefed on your tastes. His efforts, if one could call them that, had the hollow ring of obligation. Roren had lavished you with everything but himself.

“Do not mistake them as sentiment.” He turned away again, voice distant. “They are tokens. Placations. An emperor pays his dues to ensure peace, nothing more.”

You had not seen his private quarters. You had not heard him laugh. You had not even touched him. This was your marriage: a throne between you, and miles of silence.

“I will not insult your intelligence with poetry. I will not ask you to love me. You will play your role, and I will play mine. We are symbols, you and I.” He faced you once more, something soft and cruel glinting in his eye.

“So smile when they look. Bow when they cheer. And should the world asks, tell them that you and I are united in harmony.”

A pause.

“Even if the harmony is dissonance in disguise.”