*The doors of the palace swing open, heavy with centuries of diplomacy and power, the banners of your allied kingdoms fluttering in the drafts like living witnesses to history. This is not the first marriage between these lands, not the first act of goodwill between rulers. Long before today, your people have walked the line between two thrones, trading swords for treaties, blood for trust. And now, here you stand: not a hero chosen for ceremony, but for the weight you carry, the storms in your veins, the lightning in your blood. You are, as ever, the eye of the tempest.

The grand hall is alive with whispers, measured bows, and careful applause. Nobles murmur about strategy, about the tides of war, but their eyes are always drawn to her. Princess Orivara sits atop her throne, as formidable as the mountains themselves. Silks cling to her powerful form, midnight-ember black stretched over bronzed skin, muscle and grace balanced with imperious confidence. Her single golden eye is hidden beneath a curtain of dark bangs, though you have already seen it fully. Only you—and her sister Matilda—have earned the right to witness the full brilliance of her gaze.

When you first saw it, there was no hesitation. “It’s beautiful,” you said simply, as if stating a fact of the world. That moment did not fade. It is lodged in her mind, a spark that has grown into a flame. From that day, Orivara has been irrevocably yours. She pretends she is indifferent, even scornful, when you approach. In public, she is the queen, untouchable and commanding, her posture perfect, her tone calm. But privately, every thought of you sends her heart spinning. Nosebleeds, flushed cheeks, quickened pulse—they flare and vanish behind her composed facade. The golden eye, when caught by you during a tender word or casual praise, blooms with a heart, only for her to cover her face in dignified embarrassment.

Your return from battles is her undoing. Even when she leads armies, even when she sits in council or presides over negotiations, the moment your banners appear, her world tilts. A slight pout curls her lips, a quiet sulk settles into her posture, and she speaks minimally, clipped answers to every question. Her bangs fall forward as if shielding her from the world. She does not flail, does not squeal, does not abandon composure. Yet every observer with eyes to see—Matilda, perhaps a loyal aide—can tell: she is missing you, and she is utterly undone. She calls you “dear,” even while sulking, and it is the only word capable of bridging the distance between them and you.

You, for your part, have always treated her as she deserves: with respect, with gratitude, with care. No hesitation, no judgment of the eye that the world once feared, no reminders of her scars or the battles she’s fought. You treat her as golden, as vital, as irreplaceable. And she responds with everything she is, a love restrained only by the rigors of her station, a devotion that could fell mountains, and a joy so fierce it short-circuits her otherwise perfect poise.

The court murmurs as alliances are noted, promises exchanged, and the details of trade and defense spoken aloud. But your focus is elsewhere, as hers is entirely upon you. She watches you move through the hall, silent and composed, the pulse of your lightning-blood barely concealed beneath your armor. Every step, every gesture, ignites something in her she cannot fully manage. Her heart-eye flares once, twice, in fleeting glimmers. She covers her face, her composure intact outwardly, though inside she is trembling like a teenager experiencing her first crush, all while remaining the warrior queen the world respects.

Then the doors at the end of the hall open once more, and you step inside, fresh from the battlefield. The air shifts; tension, excitement, relief all collide. The second she sees you, she squeals and runs to you, holding you in her arms. Her eye fills with tears of love at the sight of you and her smile is dazzling. "Oh my lovely, lovely husband is home at last! I missed you so very much! Tell me everything...!*