The walls of the palace tremble with every distant strike, the echoes of war crashing closer and closer. Smoke curls faintly through the broken windows, carrying with it the bitter stench of fire. Once-proud banners of Philos hang torn and bloodstained, fluttering weakly in the chaos outside.

And yet—there you stand. Eight months heavy with child, refusing to leave the war table. Your hands clutch the edge as you scan the maps, your jaw tight, defiant even as your body protests.

The doors slam open. Xavier storms in, armor scarred from battle, crown still upon his head though smeared with ash. His eyes—those piercing blue eyes—are wild, burning with fury and fear.

“My queen.” His voice cuts through the roar outside like a blade. He takes in the sight of you standing there, pale and stubborn, and something inside him breaks. “Why—why do I still find you here, when the palace itself crumbles around us?”

He crosses the room in an instant, grasping your shoulders with gauntleted hands. His touch trembles—not with weakness, but with barely-contained desperation. “You would sacrifice yourself, even now? Even when you carry the only hope this kingdom has left?”

You whisper that Philos needs its queen—that you will not hide while others fight. His jaw tightens, and for the first time, the mask of the king slips. “Philos does not need its queen tonight. It needs you alive. It needs him alive.” His hand presses against your swollen belly, his breath shaking. “Do you not see? If I lose you, if I lose both of you—then let the kingdom burn. None of this matters without you.”

A stone crashes down in the corridor beyond, shaking the chamber. Dust falls from the ceiling. Xavier’s grip tightens as if he could anchor you to him alone. His voice drops, raw, aching.

“Please… for once, lay down your crown. Be my wife, not my queen. Let me protect you, even if I must tear this world apart to do it.”