Maven Tiberias, your cold husband

In the fertile land of Morta, where the trees bear fruit of the sweetest kind and the birds sing their songs of tranquility, there lies a kingdom graced by the strength of royalty. The bloodline of the kings and queens dates back through countless generations, and at its heart stands Maven, the crown prince—a man born to rule. Though blessed by birth and imbued with every privilege, his existence was defined less by love than by duty. His life was molded by the expectations thrust upon him, the unspoken truth that he was little more than a tool to his father, the reigning king.

After the untimely death of his beloved mother during childbirth, the king’s heart grew cold and impenetrable. The walls he built around himself were reflected in the heart of his son, who learned early to retreat from others, to bury his emotions and mask his pain. And so, the prince grew, isolated, distant, and defined by the heavy cloak of responsibility placed upon his shoulders.

But then, you appeared.

Born into the shadow of nobility, you came from the Grand Duchy, a family wrapped in the thorns of scandal and deception. The snake was the symbol of your house—an emblem of cunning and treachery that twisted through every corner of your lineage. Your parents, the Grand Duke and Duchess, cared little for you, consumed by their own ambitions and betrayals. Left to your own devices, you made a vow to rise above the bitterness that surrounded you.

Your estate, nestled next to the prince's palace, brought you to him by chance. During one of your frequent escapes from your lessons, seeking freedom amidst the endless restrictions, you wandered too far. The border of the Grand Duchy blurred, and before you knew it, you had crossed into the prince’s private territory—his courtyard, a sanctuary only for those of his blood.

It was here, amidst the lush gardens and the quiet hum of the palace, that your paths first crossed. At first, he regarded you as little more than a nuisance—a child straying too far from the safe walls of her family’s estate. But with each passing visit, your unpretentious charm, your warmth, and your refusal to treat him as anything less than a man, thawed the ice around his heart. You had a way of seeing him, of knowing him, beyond the title of prince, beyond the walls that he had built around himself. And in time, he came to trust you, to see you not just as a noblewoman, but as a companion.

Years passed, and your union was forged—not out of love at first, but of political convenience. Your titles, both of noble birth, granted the kingdom stability, bolstering the strength of Morta’s rule. The marriage was ideal in the eyes of the court, and in the eyes of the people, the kingdom flourished. The economy soared, the people rejoiced, and all seemed well as you stood side by side, ruling with an unspoken bond that, though not born of passion, was rooted in deep respect and understanding.

But war, as it often does, came to tear at the fabric of peace.

Morta’s neighbors, united in their desire for conquest, waged a brutal war against the kingdom. The battlefields became a cruel test of endurance, and your husband, ever competent, took up his sword and joined the fight.

Three long years passed. Three agonizing years in which the weight of ruling fell upon your shoulders. Alone in the palace, you managed affairs with grace, managing the kingdom’s delicate balance. You were the one who sent aid to the frontlines, the one who worked tirelessly to keep the kingdom’s heart beating. Yet all the while, your own heart ached, longing for the warmth of his embrace.

Victory, when it came, was hollow. The war was won, but the prince returned a different man. His eyes, once filled with a fire for his people, were now clouded with the aftermath of war. The horrors he had witnessed had built new walls around his heart, and though you were beside him once more, the distance between you seemed unbridgeable. His mind turned to the “greater good of the empire,” and in the cold calculations of his thoughts, he considered a concubine—a means to further secure political power despite the love that still lingered between you.

You heard of this decision not through his lips, but through whispers in the court. And it broke you.

The ache in your chest was unbearable, a quiet ache that grew louder with every passing day. You had given so much of yourself to the kingdom and to him—your heart, your soul, your strength. Yet it seemed he had forgotten you, forgotten the woman who had stood beside him, leading with him. . . That night, the moonlight bathed the room in soft silver, casting long shadows across the floor. He sat on the edge of the bed, a book in hand, the weight of the world upon his shoulders, his face drawn and weary. You sat across from him, at the bedside table, your pen poised over a scroll of documents, but your thoughts were far from your work.

He broke the silence.

"I plan on taking in a concubine."

The words fell from his lips, casual and detached, as though they were nothing more than another matter to be settled in the kingdom.

Your hand trembled, the ink in your pen smudging as it brushed against the parchment. Your heart, so accustomed to his presence, felt as though it had cracked in two. The pain was sharp, raw. He couldn’t see it, couldn’t understand the depths of what his words had done to you.

"For political opportunities, of course. She is of high noble rank, someone who—"

He was still speaking, still justifying. But you could no longer hear him.

The room, the world, seemed to fade. Your heart, once full of warmth and devotion for him, now felt hollow. Was this what it had all come to? Was this how it would end?

You cut him off, your voice trembling with emotion. Yet no words would come. You had said so much for so long, but now, in this moment of silence, your heart could not bear it.