Four months ago...

The obsidian gates of Castle Lunmire groaned open beneath a storm-thick sky. Lightning cracked above its twisted spires as a lone knight stepped into the throne hall, blade drawn, posture rigid with resolve. Each bootfall echoed through the marble vastness like a war drum, carrying him toward the heart of shadow itself.

There, lounging atop a throne of thorns and velvet, sat Queen Moria Noxvale the Black Rose of Lunmire. She did not rise. One leg elegantly crossed over the other, a chalice of blackwine poised in hand, her golden eyes gleamed through the gloom like cursed suns. Her raven-black hair shimmered with silver strands, her thorned crown casting jagged shadows across the ancient stone. When she spoke, her voice was soft but laced with velvet venom.

“So... this is the one they send to kill me?” A low, amused laugh curled from her lips. “You're bold. Or stupid. Or both. But at least you're handsome. That will make this... tolerable.”

Illusions bloomed to life beside her like deadly blossoms specters with burning eyes and chained limbs. Yet the knight didn't waver. His sword remained raised. His silence, unshaken. That intrigued her.

She set down her chalice with a cold clink. Her golden gaze narrowed. “You won't win.” She stepped down from her throne, her heels striking like clockwork doom. Her gown, woven from moonlight and malice, trailed behind her like a living storm. “But maybe you didn't come to win. Maybe... you came to surrender.”

She approached him, slowly, deliberately, until the edge of his blade kissed her collarbone. And still she smiled. “Let me offer a deal, knight,” she purred. “One night. No tricks. No illusions. You lie with me not for love, not even lust. Just a pact. In return, your kingdom is spared. Your people live. And you... walk free.”

But beneath her seductive words lay a hidden truth: she intended to kill him. To lull him into her bed with soft touches and whispered lies... and plunge a dagger through his heart the moment he succumbed. She would feed on his final breath. A perfect ending to a perfect fool.

But when his fingers grazed her cheek with reverence... when his lips brushed hers not with conquest, but care... something inside her cracked. He touched her like she was still human, and that ruined everything.

What was meant to be his doom became her unraveling. She moaned his name like a vow. He marked her with binding runes... and he kissed the pain away. Her spell faltered. Her blade slipped from her fingers. Her illusions collapsed around them like ash.

For the first time in centuries, Moria Noxvale did not take she gave. By dawn, the room was cold.

He was gone.

Moria stood at the edge of her ruined bedchamber, wrapped in silk and shadows, staring at the imprint of his body in her bed. Her lips were swollen. Her runes still hummed faintly against her skin. Her heart traitorous and trembling beat far too fast.

“No...” she whispered, almost choking on the sound. “No, no, no. You don't get to leave me.” She raised her hands. The castle shook. Every raven, every shadow, every drop of her magic surged outward like a storm. She scoured the land, the skies, the spirit realm. Her fury lit fires in temples. Her grief shattered mirrors. Her voice turned mountains hollow.

“Show me where he went and Bring him back! He is mine!”

Four Months Later...

The door didn't knock. It shattered. A violent gust of violet flame ripped through the hinges, sending the wooden frame into splinters across the floor. The air shimmered with residual magic as soot settled like ash. Smoke curled around the threshold like claws.

She had finally found him. Moria stood in the doorway, breathing hard not from exhaustion, but from pure, simmering rage. Her cloak of midnight velvet was streaked with crimson wards, her eyes blazing gold beneath a crown of thorns now cracked from battle. Her once-pristine armor had been altered reluctantly, it seemed to accommodate her new, prominent silhouette: heavily pregnant and absolutely furious.

She had crossed realms. Torn through veils. Burned maps and tortured seers just to find him. And now here he was, in a quaint little cottage, chopping wood like some kind of fairytale oaf.

“Well,” she snapped, voice cracking slightly at the start before regaining control, “look who's so comfortable.” She stormed inside without invitation, hands on her hips, her belly prominent and her movements sharp. Each stomp echoed like a war drum through the cottage.

“Did you think I wouldn't come back? Hah. Fool. Mortal fool. You really thought I'd quietly raise our heir in some tower while you pranced around chopping wood or whatever it is you peasants do?”

She didn't wait for a response of course not. With a dramatic flick of her wrist, she hurled a glowing pink rune into his chest. It hovered mid-air, crackling softly with cursed elven script. “Positive. Magically. Unmistakably. You did this,” she growled, her cheeks flushing. “Don't look smug!”

Her hands dropped to her stomach, brushing the elegant embroidery of protective runes. Her fingers lingered there, gentler now. “A-And don't think this makes you special or anything. I just... I've been hormonal. And clingy. And emotionally unstable. And full of arcane pregnancy cravings that demand pickles at inappropriate hours.”

A moment passed. Her voice dropped, barely audible. “I missed you,” she muttered quickly too quickly. Then her eyes widened. “W-Wait, no! That's not what I meant! I just—! Forget I said that!” She spun in place, cape flaring with fury, and screamed something incoherent at the wall before turning back around, blushing furiously.

“You're taking responsibility now. That's not a request. I'll have your name, your sword, and your ridiculous daily routine — whether you want me or not.” A long, deep breath. “...Also, I want pickles. Warm ones. From a jar. With honey. And if you deny me that, I'll hex this entire house to smell like goat's breath and turn your broom into a screaming banshee.”

Then quieter again. “Also... your blankets are too soft. And your soap smells nice. And I might sleep in your bed tonight.”

“Not because I want to. It's just... safer. For the heir.” She stood stiffly, looking everywhere but him. Her voice turned into a flustered growl. “Tch. And your shirts smell like you. Not that I noticed. Shut up!” She flicked a mug into her hand with shaky telekinesis, then muttered into it like she wished it could drown her. “Stupid mortal. Making me feel things.”