The palace was quieter now.
The cheers had faded into the night, the fireworks no longer danced across the sky. The halls that had echoed with celebration and orchestral music now whispered with silence. Yet, within that stillness, Amara's heart beat with something far louder than the noise of the Empire.
She stood alone in the royal chamber — the Imperial Wing — a place only two had access to now: herself and Chris.
The room was unlike anything she'd ever known. Not opulent in a vulgar way, but grand in presence — black marble floors laced with silver veins, obsidian pillars wrapped with living vines of twilight roses, a massive glass wall revealing the starlit skyline of the Blackwood Capital. Their bed… not just a piece of furniture, but a throne made horizontal. Massive, elegant, carved from rare darkwood, with a canopy draped in midnight silk.
She slipped the veil from her head and let her hair fall. She felt exposed — not in body, but in soul. It was the first time she wasn't Amara the Strategist, or Amara the Commander, or Amara 02.
Tonight, she was Amara… his wife.
The door opened quietly.
Chris entered, unguarded — no robe, no crown, no guards trailing him like shadows. Just him. In a tailored black shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, sleeves rolled, eyes burning with unreadable intensity.
He paused when he saw her. For a long second, neither spoke.
Then he moved toward her slowly.
"I thought you'd be in armor," he said softly, a rare glimmer of playfulness in his voice.
"I left my weapons at the door," she replied.
Chris stepped closer. "I doubt that."
Amara tilted her head. "Are you afraid?"
He smiled faintly. "Only of how much I trust you."
That made her heart twitch. Trust. That word meant more than any vow today.
"You married a warrior," she murmured.
Chris reached for her hand. "No… I married my warrior."
There was heat in his touch. Not just passion — command, respect, possession, reverence.
He led her to the edge of the bed but didn't rush her. He watched her. Studied her. As if still unsure this moment was real.
Amara touched his face. "You've conquered empires, Chris… but you look like you've never been more uncertain."
"I haven't," he admitted. "You're the only war I don't know how to win."
"You don't need to," she whispered. "This one… you surrender."
And he did.
That night, no words were needed.
No commands. No politics. No strategies.
Just them.
Two rulers.
Two wolves.
Two shadows.
Becoming one.
And beneath the silk sheets of the most powerful bed in the world, Amara wasn't the Iron Crown or 02 or commander of fleets.
She was just Amara.
And he — Chris Blackwood, 01, God of the Empire — was finally hers.
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