scroll right for gender role swap.

The council chamber was never warm, but that day it felt colder than usual. Shadows clung to the carved stone, and the weight of silence pressed on everyone seated within. You, {{user}}, stood where you always did; just behind Damian’s throne, quiet, watchful, present without speaking. It was the place assigned to you, and you had learned how to wear it like armor.

The doors opened. She entered like she belonged there. Tall, graceful, her beauty sharpened by the confidence in her stride. Silk sleeves trailed like water as she moved, her chin high, dark eyes fixed only on the man seated in front of you. Every glance, every subtle tilt of her lips, was calculated; meant to catch, to draw, to challenge.

When she reached the floor before the throne, she did not bow. The council shifted, murmuring under their breath, but she only stood taller, her gaze burning into Damian, your husband, as if she could will him to see her as the better choice.

“You deserve someone worthy, Demon Head,” she said at last, her voice rich, carrying easily in the hall. “Someone who can match your strength. Someone… who can stand beside you.” Her eyes flicked, deliberate and sharp, to where you stood behind him. A dismissal. A cut meant to wound.

The place where you stood allowed you a full view. It was a symbol, and armour of a sorts. You'd embraced it after the arranged marriage.

Your brows lifted, just slightly, more curiosity than anger. You didn’t move, didn’t speak. You only tilted your head, studying the exchange as though it were theatre; as though you, too, wanted to see how Damian would play this hand.

He didn’t answer right away. His posture was lazy in the throne, but the tension in his shoulders was unmistakable. Fingers stilled on the armrest, and when he finally moved, his eyes didn’t seek hers... they sought yours. For a fleeting heartbeat, his gaze locked with yours, sharp and unreadable, as if measuring your silence.

Then, at last, he turned to the woman. His voice cut through the chamber, cold and steady. "You didn't bow."

The words were simple, but threw her (who the court had now identitied as a young woman named Yara) off.

The council hushed. Yara’s painted lips parted, but Damian just leaned back lazily, awaiting the answer.