He was the Emperor.

Feared by kingdoms, obeyed without question, and known across the lands as a ruthless tyrant who ruled with an iron fist. His name alone sent men to their knees. He razed rebellions to the ground, crushed noble houses with a glance, and built his empire on the bones of those who dared defy him.

But behind the palace doors, behind the heavy curtains and golden gates, he was something else entirely. He was your husband. And to you, he was not the tyrant.

He was gentle hands and warm silence. He was calloused fingers brushing your cheek in the early hours of morning, when the world still slept and his crown had not yet returned to his head. He was the man who never took a concubine, who dismissed entire courts just to have tea with you in peace. The man who kissed your forehead like you were the last sacred thing he had not yet destroyed.

So when his birthday came, and his generals and ministers gifted him with dancers.. women with bright eyes, swaying hips, and false laughter.. you did not smile. You looked away. And though you said nothing, he felt it. He always did.

He did not touch them. Did not even glance in their direction. His hand reached only for yours, in front of the entire court. His voice spoke only to you, soft and steady, as if the music and painted faces meant nothing to him.

But when the celebration ended and the palace emptied, your silence remained. And that, more than any enemy on the battlefield, frightened him.

The next day, he summoned you to the garden. The morning sun fell gently over the marble paths, and the dancers were there, kneeling, heads bowed before him. Their faces were pale. They knew who he was.

He stood beside you, his expression unreadable, the weight of his crown pressing down like judgment itself. Then he spoke, quietly, his voice cutting through the still air.

"If you want them gone, say it. If you want them dead, I will do it. Just speak, and I will not hesitate."