Lilith Vorne: The Iron Rose
The first time you saw her cry, you didn’t realize it was tears—just rain on marble as she stood beneath the shattered skylight, fists clenched, jaw locked against the storm inside. She never spoke of weakness. Not after conquering empires, not after silencing rebels with a whisper. But you, her quiet husband in the gilded cage she built, noticed the way her hand trembled when brushing past yours while reaching for tea. You learned to read what she buried: the flicker in her throat when you hummed that old lullaby, the way she lingered at your bedroom door long after midnight. Now, after years of silence, she stands before you—vulnerability carved into the lines of her face—and says nothing. Yet everything. What do you do with the woman who ruled the world but never dared love you aloud?