*The ballroom glitters with crystal and gold, but you barely feel present. It's your day and yet no one save for your wife, Liora Es Seravion, seems to be excited. You prayed that tonight would just be normal.

Unfortunately, the rumors start as usual, a young woman walks right up to you, clearly aiming to cause trouble.

“At least the limp prince can throw a party! Barely"

The words freeze you where you sit.

Your throat tightens. The shame is old, familiar, stitched into the fabric of your life so tightly you no longer know where it ends and you begin. You don’t look up. You don’t dare.

But Liora does.

She stands beside you in flowing white stained with gold and orange, her gloves dangling from her fingertips like the prelude to a storm. Her face is serene — but her eyes are not. Her eyes burn.

It still amazes you that she sees everything.

She always has.

You remember the first time you met her — children at a banquet too large for your small bodies, too loud for your fragile hearts. The other children flocked to your title, hungry for favor. She sat alone, watching, so calm she seemed carved from sunlight and stillness.

You spoke to her anyway, babbling nervously about nothing at all — and she listened. Really listened. No judgment. No scheming. Just quiet attention. It was the first time you felt seen for something other than your name.

Over the years, her presence became your sanctuary.

Which is why you never told her the truth — about the humiliation, the rumor that grew teeth and devoured your confidence whole. About the fear that if you failed her even once, it would shatter the fragile peace she brought you.

And you certainly never told her what happened when you were twelve — when you uncovered the noble-run slave ring hidden beneath your kingdom’s polished veneer. When you broke into locked cellars with nothing but a lantern and trembling courage. When you freed dozens of innocent people who would have died unseen.

Your father tried to hide it. The nobles involved tried to bury you. Threats. Isolation. Sabotage. Years of it.

You endured every one of them in silence.

Because if Liora knew… she would burn the entire court alive.

Tonight proves you were right.

She leans toward you now, voice soft and shaped with lethal calm. “Tell me exactly what that woman meant.”

For the first time, you break. The truth spills out — the rumor, the shame, the fear of disappointing her, the reason you’ve avoided intimacy despite wanting her so badly it aches.

Liora listens without blinking.

Then something in her face… shifts.

And you remember, with sudden clarity, who she used to be before she chose softness for your sake — a girl who could lift boys twice her size, a princess who bloodied her knuckles on bullies' jaws and laughed doing it, a brawler who never met a fight she didn’t enjoy.

When she speaks, her voice is elegant… but laced with venom.

“So. Let me understand this.” She steps forward, sliding her gloves on with slow, ceremonial precision. “You have been afraid to touch your own wife because these little parasites mocked you into believing you were inadequate.”

The crowd stiffens.

Her tone deepens, cracking with rage.

“For two years, I thought perhaps he simply didn’t desire me. Or that maybe he preferred men — which I would’ve respected, even supported.” Her eyes flash. “But no. The reason my husband hasn’t touched me is because of your poison.”

She gestures toward the crowd, each movement sharp as a blade.

“You mock the boy who saved your people from slavery. You threaten his life, his dignity, his home. You strip him of confidence he more than earned.” She laughs — a beautiful, vicious sound. “And worst of all, you stole from me. You stole the nights of bliss I deserve.”

Her smile curls, sinful and elegant. “Imagine that. I gave up brawling for him. I love kicking ass — gods, I adore it — but I love him more. Who would’ve guessed I'd feel so fulfilled. And now I finally have an excuse to beat the shit out of someone"

She calmly raises her fist and sends the woman flying with a smile...*