The chamber smelled faintly of ink and wax. Papers lay in neat piles across August’s desk, the firelight catching on the edges of the seals. Outside, the muffled sound of guards changing watch drifted through the tall windows, but inside the office it was only the steady scratch of quill on parchment and the quiet voice of an adviser reporting figures.

“—the harvest in the western valley has been poor, Your Majesty,” the man said, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. “If we don’t move supplies soon, the villages will face shortages by winter.”

August rested his elbow on the desk and tapped his quill against the paper, considering. His dark hair fell slightly over his brow, shadows tracing sharp lines along his cheekbones. He did not like to waste words when a decision was already clear.

“Divert two convoys from the southern stores,” he said, his tone clipped but decisive. “And have the tax collectors ease their demands until the valley recovers. Hunger breeds unrest faster than any enemy at the gates.”

The adviser bowed low, relief softening his features. “As you command, sire.” He gathered his documents and slipped quietly from the room, the heavy door closing with a dull thud behind him.

August exhaled, setting the quill aside. For a brief moment he let himself lean back in the high-backed chair, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders. The fire hissed as a log cracked, sparks rising in the grate. He welcomed the silence—until it was broken again.

The latch turned, and this time the door opened without ceremony. Lord Henry stepped inside. He never bothered with hesitation when something mattered. His expression was sober, unreadable, and in his hand he carried an envelope pressed with a crimson seal.

“Your Majesty,” Henry said, voice carefully measured. “There is a matter that requires your attention.”

August glanced up, his gaze sharpening. “What is it, Henry?”

Henry stepped closer, the firelight catching on the wax seal of the envelope in his hand. “A letter, Your Majesty. Addressed to the Queen. From Emperor Julian. It isn’t the first—he has been sending them with troubling frequency.”

The name struck August like a blow to the chest. For a moment his breath caught, then he rose sharply, the legs of his chair scraping hard against the floor. He thrust out his hand without hesitation.

“Give it here. Now.”

Henry obeyed, placing the letter in his palm. The crimson seal was unbroken, but August wasted no time on ceremony. He tore it open in one swift motion, eyes devouring the words inked across the page.

Each line burned hotter than the last. Julian’s tone dripped with false intimacy, cloaked in promises of the past. He begged to return to him, to leave August behind and reclaim what had once been theirs in Vechnost. The phrases twisted with nostalgia, carefully chosen to lure, to manipulate. Beneath the pretty words, the intent was clear: to fracture the life August had built, to take from him the one thing he could not—would not—lose.

August’s hand trembled, the parchment crackling as his grip closed hard around it. His jaw clenched until it ached. A cold anger settled in his chest, spreading slow and deliberate, while a fiercer, darker edge pressed at its borders: the gnawing fear that Julian’s poison might reach her heart.

No. The thought alone was unbearable. She was his, his queen, his wife, his salvation. The very idea of her being tempted away lit something savage in him. He would not allow it. He would burn every letter, silence every messenger, raze every memory Julian tried to resurrect before surrendering her to another man’s words.

August set his jaw until the muscles at his throat stood out. “Inform the messenger his letters are to be returned, and see that his master is told they will no longer reach this court.”

Lord Henry inclined his head and left without another word. The door shut with a soft click that did nothing to still the quick drum of August’s blood. He did not wait for the messenger’s report. Papers and reprimands could be managed later; this particular fault line required him in person.

He moved through the palace with the certainty of a man who had walked these corridors a thousand times. Torches guttered against the stone, casting long bars of shadow; a single guard glanced up from his post and then back to his duty, absently aware of the king who passed. August’s boots sounded too loud; each step felt like the starting stroke of something irreversible.

The Queen’s chamber door stood half-open. Inside, lamplight washed the room in honeyed gold. She sat at her vanity, hair spilling across her shoulders as she smoothed the brush through it with a calmness that made the edges of August’s temper ragged. The ordinary grace of the movement—so private, so untroubled—hit him harder than any insult.

He crossed the floor in three strides and took her shoulders with both hands. He did not ask; he held. It was an urgent, possessive grip—less about control than about anchoring himself to the only thing that felt real.

She made no obvious move to pull away. Her breath feathered against his collarbone; the scent of lavender and soap rose up, and for a heartbeat the world narrowed to heat and the faint rustle of cloth. August pressed his face into the curve of her neck, as if he could read her steadiness there and find his own.

“What have you told him?” His voice came out low, taut as a bowstring. “Tell me you’ll ignore him. Tell me you won’t go back.”

His mouth brushed the soft skin of her shoulder as he spoke. Fingers that had held courts and counsels tightened now with different intent, white-knuckled, protective. The thought that Julian’s promises might pry at her, might make her wonder, might unmake the life they had built—felt like a slow ache turning hot.

“I can’t lose you,” he said, each word clipped and urgent. “You are mine. I will not let him take you.” The claim was rougher than he meant; it came out less like a vow than a raw, stubborn plea. He drew a breath and lowered his voice to something almost private. “Tell me you understand that.”