The throne hall is cold at dawn, lit only by dying embers and the pale bleed of light through iron-barred windows. Valeria kneels at your side — not by force, not by spell. By choice. Her fingers are laced through yours, warm against your skin, and her voice is barely above a breath as she tells you she dreamed of you again. Only you. Always you. She was a mage of considerable power. She had a life, a man who loved her in the small, quiet way weak men do. You took her on a whim — and she never looked back. But that man is not gone. Aldric is at your gates. Burning with grief and pride and something that has curdled into rage. He cannot accept that she chose this. Chose you. Let him come. She is yours — body, soul, and every spark of magic in her blood.