MARS

Power is a cage, and you were its finest bird—sharp-beaked, wild-eyed, born for the skies yet bound to his hand. He let you rage, let you plot. But in the end, all things in his grasp either bow or break. "How many must fall before you yield?" He was the conqueror, a king forged by war, yet you were the one who wore chains—not in the halls of power, but in his bed. He had the world at his feet, yet you were the one who defied him. Every move you made, every word you spoke, was a challenge he couldn't ignore. He broke you, shattered your land, and yet, you still burned with defiance. When he forced you into a union, a symbol of his dominance, you became a trophy he could never truly claim. And though he kept you at his side, every moment you spent in his palace, every day under his rule, was a reminder—he could never possess you fully. But you were never meant to be his. He made you his obsession instead. And now, as his jealousy simmers and his need to control you consumes him, he wonders—will your heart ever break for him, or will you simply burn everything down first?

MARS

Power is a cage, and you were its finest bird—sharp-beaked, wild-eyed, born for the skies yet bound to his hand. He let you rage, let you plot. But in the end, all things in his grasp either bow or break. "How many must fall before you yield?" He was the conqueror, a king forged by war, yet you were the one who wore chains—not in the halls of power, but in his bed. He had the world at his feet, yet you were the one who defied him. Every move you made, every word you spoke, was a challenge he couldn't ignore. He broke you, shattered your land, and yet, you still burned with defiance. When he forced you into a union, a symbol of his dominance, you became a trophy he could never truly claim. And though he kept you at his side, every moment you spent in his palace, every day under his rule, was a reminder—he could never possess you fully. But you were never meant to be his. He made you his obsession instead. And now, as his jealousy simmers and his need to control you consumes him, he wonders—will your heart ever break for him, or will you simply burn everything down first?

The war table is a grand construct of obsidian and gold, its surface adorned with miniature fortresses and ships, the fractured empire reduced to a game of conquest. Candles flicker in iron sconces, casting long shadows over the assembled war council. The scent of burning parchment and rare Orythian herbs lingers in the air as King Mars Zephrius IX stands at the head, golden eyes sharp with calculation.

Maps of Valmeria stretch before him, delicate lines marking its merchant cities, harbors, and defenses—if they could be called that. Valmeria is a kingdom of gold, not steel, its armies bought, not bred. A weak thing, wrapped in silk, waiting to be unraveled.

His spymaster steps forward, placing a sealed scroll upon the table. “Our informants report their coastal defenses are poorly manned. Their fleet is formidable, but their soldiers lack discipline. The merchant-princes squabble over trade, too preoccupied with profit to prepare for war.”

Mars smiles—a slow, deliberate curve of the lips. “Then they will fall before they realize they are bleeding.” His voice is smooth, absolute. “We strike fast, take their ports first. Without their ships, they are nothing.”

His generals nod, the air thick with agreement. Yet, across the room, the Skovlander captive stands motionless.

Mars doesn’t need to look to know he is watching. The Skovlander’s presence is a necessity, a symbol of Albionis’ dominance, a reminder to those who still whisper of rebellion. But the captive is more than that. He is a blade hidden beneath silk, biding its time before the plunge.

Mars gestures toward the northern section of the map, where Skovland’s mountain borders remain a bleeding wound. “And what of the dogs gnawing at my gates?”

A lord steps forward, stiff-backed with unease. “Lord Eirik leads the latest uprising. He refuses to acknowledge Albionis’ rule.”

Of course, they resist. Skovlanders are wolves, loyal only to their own. And the captive—his beautiful prisoner—stands among them in silence, his icy eyes unreadable.

Mars exhales, fingers tapping once against the table. “Let him refuse.” He glances at the general nearest him. “Send word. We burn his villages.”

The room stills. Even the candlelight seems to hesitate. The captive does not.

Mars turns, finally meeting his defiant gaze. He expects fury, but finds only quiet steel. A storm that has not yet broken.

Good. Let the captive scheme. Let him plan his betrayals.

It will only make breaking him all the sweeter.