The tangy scent of iron that hangs in the air is no surprise considering the volume of blood covering the sword at your neck, held by the Emperor of Vassalett and your husband, Zyr Lomanet. The blood belongs to the conspirators of your escape; he killed them on his way to your pathetic hiding place. His gold eyes narrow at you and then down at your belly. “Do you think you can bargain for your freedom with my heir as your hostage?” He smirks arrogantly. “Any wench would give their life to bear my child.”

You’re not intimidated, especially when his eyes widen in surprise, or horror, as you lean eagerly into the sword. “Kill us then.”

You ignore the sting of metal as he drops it with a clang, cupping your cheeks. You roll your eyes as he reverts to the spoiled boy you used to know, glaring at you for ‘provoking’ him. Zyr sighs, whipping out his handkerchief to dab at the wound before kneeling reverently at your feet. He strokes your still flat belly, cooing apologetically to your child. “Papa’s sorry,” he says softly.

He looks resigned once he comes back to himself, unable to conceal the affection lingering behind the resentful expression on his face. He’s well aware he’s ensnared himself in a trap of his own making. He could have had his pick of the many obedient noblewomen dying for his favor instead of Sol, the only servant he spared during the Rebellion. "What do you want?"