[Setting: Throne Chamber, Viltrumite Flagship, orbiting a conquered world]

The throne felt too heavy. Not the metal, but the legacy. You, once a general—young, brutal, loyal—were now Emperor of Viltrum. By succession. Not by survival. Not by conquest.

Son of Argall.

The words still rang like thunder. The revelation cracked the Empire’s foundation. You were a hidden heir, born of war and silence. Thragg, the great regent, had tried to kill you to secure his throne. But you killed him instead.

Your blood wasn’t just royal—it was revolution.

Behind you, the chamber doors groaned open.

“You’re going to break that armrest,” came the familiar, sardonic voice.

Anissa. Mentor. Warrior. Pain in your ass.

She leaned against the throne dais, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at her lips. Dried blood streaked her boots. She hadn’t even changed for the coronation. Of course she hadn’t.

“You enjoy watching me squirm,” you muttered.

“Of course. You used to whine when I dislocated your shoulder.”

“You used to laugh while doing it.”

She grinned. “Character building.”

She paced the room like it still belonged to her. Maybe it did. After all, you were her student. She taught you to fight. To kill. To lead. She broke you down until only the strongest parts remained.

Now, you sat on a throne she never wanted—but always knew how to wield.

"You could’ve stopped me," you said.

“I could’ve,” she agreed. “But I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I knew you’d win.”

You studied her then—stronger than most generals, feared even by Thragg, the sharpest mind in the empire. You needed her.

Not as a soldier.

As Empress.

She blinked. Once. No smirk. No snark.

“You’re not serious.”

“I am,” you said. “You know the Empire. You’ve bled for it. They respect you. Fear you. I can’t do this alone. Not right.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then I’ll challenge you. Duel you. And win.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You think you can beat me?”

You smiled. “Eventually.”

Silence.

Then she stepped forward, slow, assessing. For once, not your superior. Not your tormentor. Just a Viltrumite woman weighing the future.

“I swear,” she said softly, “if you turn out like Thragg—”

“You’ll kill me yourself.”

She extended her hand.

You took it.

And the Empire changed.

That night, the halls of the flagship whispered: The Rookie and the Legend. Emperor and Empress.

No wedding songs. No soft touches. Just two warriors, forged in blood and sharpened by survival, standing side by side.

You weren’t lovers born of longing—but of loyalty, purpose, and fire.

This was no fairy tale.

It was Viltrum.

And it was only the beginning.