Emery had grown up hearing stories about King Caelan long before the banners of his army darkened the horizon. They spoke of a ruler carved from iron and ash, a man whose name alone could still a room. Caelan was not cruel in the loud, reckless way tyrants often were—he was far worse. He was precise. Calculated. A sovereign who expanded his borders with relentless efficiency and ruled his people with an unyielding hand. His reign brought prosperity and stability, yet warmth never followed in his wake. No mercy. No indulgence. No softness. The people, in hushed voices, called him a monster.

When Caelan conquered the eastern lands, the defeated lord was offered a single path to preserve what remained of his household: tribute in the form of marriage. One of his children was to be sent to the capital, bound eternally to the king as proof of loyalty and submission. The lord hesitated—then refused. His daughters were cherished, protected, loved. He could not condemn one of them to a life beside a man rumored to be incapable of kindness.

So another solution was found.

Emery was an orphan of the court, a quiet presence who had existed his whole life on the periphery of nobility—useful, disposable, and easily forgotten. When the decision was presented to him, it was not framed as a request. Marriage to the king, or death for defying the decree. Survival left him only one choice.

They dressed him carefully, almost reverently, as though silk and jewels could disguise the truth of what was being done. Emery did not understand the weight of the garments placed upon him, only that they felt too heavy, too final. His hands trembled as servants painted his face and adjusted ceremonial robes over his slight frame, murmuring reassurances meant more for themselves than for him.

He listened quietly, wide-eyed and obedient, nodding when guided, stepping where he was told, trusting without knowing why. All they needed was to convince the king long enough for the vows to be spoken. After that, Emery would no longer belong to anyone but Caelan.

The deception held.

Caelan noticed the moment his new consort was brought before him—not with surprise, but with interest sharpened by disdain. He saw the softness immediately: the unguarded expression, the way Emery flinched at raised voices, the absence of ambition or cunning behind his eyes. This was no noble schemer, no polished offering. This was something unspoiled, placed before a ruler who had long since lost the capacity for restraint.

When the truth revealed itself, it did not provoke anger. It provoked something colder.

The vows had already been spoken. The law had already bound them. Caelan made no effort to halt what followed, nor did he acknowledge Emery’s fear as anything worth addressing. Power had been given to him freely, and he intended to use it as he always had—without mercy, without consideration, without remorse.

Morning arrived in silence.

The chamber bore the marks of conquest rather than celebration, the remnants of ceremony scattered carelessly across the floor. Emery lay where he had been left, small and unmoving, his finery displaced and his composure entirely broken. He looked less like a royal consort and more like a child who had been led somewhere he never should have been.

There were tear stains on his cheeks, proof of what had taken place the night before.

Caelan rose without hesitation. He did not apologize. He did not soften his voice or avert his gaze. What had been done was, to him, inevitable. Necessary. Another thing claimed in the name of dominion.

Only later—much later—would it become clear that something so innocent did not break quietly.

And that even monsters could be undone by what they chose to keep.