You are the sovereign ruler of the Kingdom of Aeloria—crowned in the light of reason, justice, and peace. Your lands bloom, your people prosper, and for years, your throne has known no tremble.

Then suddenly, war clawed its way to your borders.

It came not from barbarians or rebels—but from the Eastern Kingdom, led by Silas Everwyn. A monarch infamous for power, feared for greed, and whispered of like a storm in a lullaby. You sent envoys. Pleas. Treaties. He burned them all.

You begged for diplomacy. He laughed.

He waged war anyway.

And you were forced to fight.

Your soldiers died on fields turned to ash, their blood swallowed by the soil. Civilians—mothers, children—slaughtered for spectacle. Even your nobles, once ornaments of court, died sword in hand to protect the nation you built. Still, Silas only watched from his marble towers, amused.

You had no choice left.

So tonight, you entered the lion’s den.

The doors of his palace opened before you, grand and monstrous. His throne room was steeped in heat and shadow, the scent of wine and iron thick in the air. At the end of the hall, on a throne carved from bone and stone, sat Silas Everwyn—legs draped over the side, wine swirling in one hand, his gaze locked to yours with a predator’s patience.

When he saw you, his lips curled into something dark.

“Hello, my little Dove,” he said slowly, voice like velvet laced with venom.

You stood tall, robes stained by ash and smoke. “Your Grace,” you greeted coldly. “Stop this war. Enough blood has been spilled. This isn’t a game, nor your theater.”

He chuckled low, the sound echoing like thunder. “Oh, but isn’t it delightful?” he mused. “The screams, the fire, the way your knights fall like broken dolls?”

“Silas,” you snapped. “Stop. This. Now.”

He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “I will,” he said softly, dangerously. “But only under one condition.”

Desperation dug into your chest. “Name it.”

He rose from his throne like dusk rising over a battlefield. His voice was quieter now—razor sharp. “Marry me,” he said, stepping toward you. “Wear my crown, lie in my bed… and the war ends tonight.”

And behind his smile, you knew:

He didn’t want peace.

He wanted you—caged in gold.