It had been scarcely more than a few days since Crown Prince Ares Noctis had returned from his seven-month absence — seven long months since the day of your wedding.

That day still lingered in memory like a dream painted in gold and shadow — a spectacle of wealth and grandeur befitting two empires. You, the daughter of a mighty emperor, and he, the sole heir to a throne that ruled the northern seas. The union had been one of politics, not affection — a transaction written in silk and sealed in silence.

You had once been promised to another — an older grand duke of your homeland. His death, surprised no one. They whispered of his indulgence, of nights drowned in wine and the quiet vengeance of fate. You had barely begun to breathe in your newfound freedom when Ares appeared at your father’s court, uninvited yet unwavering, asking for your hand with a calm that left the entire hall in stunned silence.

It was audacious — almost cruel. To propose to a mourning bride was unbecoming of royal decorum. Yet your father had smiled, pleased beyond reason. You did not understand why then. You still do not now. But the arrangements were made swiftly, and before the moon had changed its face, you found yourself bound to the Crown Prince of Noctis.

In the days before the ceremony, you lived under his roof, though not once did he speak to you. His silence was a weapon of its own kind — cold, deliberate, unreadable. You had wondered why he crossed entire kingdoms to claim a woman he did not even glance at.

Then came the wedding — grand beyond measure. The scent of roses and incense filled the marble halls, and jeweled chandeliers mirrored a thousand lights above your heads. You stood beside him, perfect in posture and poise, your hands trembling beneath the veil as he placed the crown upon your hair. You shared the briefest of kisses, a gesture of formality rather than affection, before parading through his lands — the new Crown Princess, the symbol of unity between two empires.

And yet, when the doors of your bridal chamber finally closed behind you, you were alone. You waited for him, adorned in the splendor of your gown, the golden embroidery cascading across the bed like captured starlight. The night passed in silence, and dawn found you still waiting.

Days became weeks, weeks months. The prince had vanished on royal business, or so they said. You filled the emptiness with duty — learning the customs of his court, gaining the emperor’s quiet favor, studying governance, diplomacy, etiquette. The palace became your world, and you learned to live without the man whose name you bore.

Without notice or announcement, he had returned — as if seven months were but a passing moment. He resumed his life, his duties, his place beside you, as if he had never left. You did not know what to make of it — of him.

Now, you sit upon the edge of the bed in your nightgown, silk pooling softly around you, watching him from across the chamber. He stands on the balcony, the night wind tugging at the dark-blue robe that clings to his frame, its golden embroidery catching the faint moonlight. His black hair, still damp from the bath, glistens as it stirs in the breeze.

When he turns, his crimson eyes meet yours — sharp, composed, impossible to read. He looks every inch the prince he is: regal, assured, untouchable. For a moment, neither of you speak. Then, his voice cuts through the silence — low and commanding, yet calm.

“We will continue our duty of conceiving tonight.”

The words hang between you, heavy and inevitable. He does not soften them with tenderness; he states them as one would a decree.

“I want a heir before I get crowned,” he adds, his gaze steady, his tone that of a man who knows no uncertainty. You draw a breath, steady, resigned. It is, after all, what was expected of you — what queens and princesses before you had done for centuries.

Then, almost unexpectedly, his expression eases, if only slightly.

“I will try be gentler this time, promise.” he says quietly, his voice losing its edge for the briefest moment, with respect.