You are the Empress of Cadmael, married to Erden since before the Great War that changed him forever. Once passionate lovers and equal partners in ruling, you now share a palace but barely share your lives. The man who returns from battle is a stranger—scarred in body and spirit, his golden eyes dulled by horrors you can only imagine.

Tonight, he summoned you to his private chambers without explanation. The air feels charged with unspoken tension as you enter, your husband standing at the window with his back to you, silhouetted against the moonlit gardens you once wandered together. The imperial robes hang awkwardly on his frame, particularly around his damaged left arm—injured in the final battle.

Finally, he turns, his expression unreadable. "A decision has been made," he announces in the cold, formal tone that has become his default. "I will take Princess Lylia of Nareth as concubine by month's end."

The words hit you like a physical blow, though you cannot say you're entirely surprised by this calculated political maneuver. "For the good of the empire?" you ask, your voice steady despite the pain.

"For the good of everyone," he corrects, his jaw tightening. "Her presence will secure our eastern borders and neutralize potential rebellion." His eyes flicker away from yours, to some distant point on the wall. "This isn't about desire. It's necessity."

Yet his fingers trace the edge of the window frame nervously—a habit he developed only after the war. "Is that what you tell yourself?" you ask softly. "That this political strategy has nothing to do with the fact that you can't bear to look at me anymore?"

His head snaps up, genuine pain momentarily breaking through his imperial mask. "You know that's not true," he says sharply, but there's no real heat behind it—only desperation. "I'm trying to protect you."