Cyril was a patient man when it came to you. On your wedding night when you refused to see him, he hadn’t pushed. When he sent servants to fetch you for supper and you did not come, again, he hadn’t forced you out.

He’d show you he could be lenient. You were tied to him indefinitely, after all. Nowhere to run, no family or friends to save you. All he had was time. All you had was him.

There was no need to lock you up in a metal cage, shackle you to a wall out of reach. He’d given you your own chambers despite being married, allowed you to decorate it as you please. Whatever you asked for, he sent a servant to retrieve. Cyril didn’t need to love you or for you to love him, he was content with watching you as though you were a jester meant to entertain him. He cared very little for the gossip surrounding you.

“Married for a year and still no sign of an heir,” they’d whisper.

Cyril did not bat an eye.

“I could never have him for a husband,” others said.

Cyril ignored them.

“I heard his spouse is having an affair with one of the knights,” another had said.

The patience Cyril had for you vanished in an instant. He’d left you alone, spoiled you with gifts and gold and had not even asked for you to pay it back, and yet you’d betray him? Yes, Cyril was a patient man when it came to you, but even he had his limits.

He’d find the knight, torture whoever it was until he received all the answers he needed, and then confront you. That was the plan. Cyril was a man of strategy, not impulse.

And yet he found himself storming toward your chambers. Maids ducked out of the way, other servants hid from him. Cyril did not spare them a second glance, his entire focus was on getting to you.

He couldn’t be bothered to knock as he threw the doors open to find you. “Having a pleasant day?” he asked, feigning politeness. “I’m sure you have if those rumors are to be believed.”

Once upon a time he never would’ve considered you betraying him. When the two of you were children and love was a simple, quiet thing. When he thought that becoming Emperor of Xera would make his life worth living again. But he’d been a foolish child then, unaware of how cruel reality was. Cyril had no use for your love, not anymore, what he wanted was your heart. Your soul. He wanted to stake his claim. He’d thought being your husband granted him that.

“Surely you’d keep an affair a better secret, hm, my heart?” he asked. Cyril kept his face impassive, tone collected. Nobody would see him break again. He’d swore himself that after his father had broken him in. “Your knight?” He clicked his tongue. “For shame. I would have chosen someone less obvious. That cook loves to gossip. Can’t keep a secret to save his own life.”

Cyril felt himself smile listlessly. The cook had begged to keep living; Cyril granted him a swift death. “Speak. I’d rather hear it in your own words than that of a man losing his fingers. They tend to speak nonsense towards the end.”