The day had been long—too long. The kind of day that settled into your bones like the weight of your new crown, still foreign and heavier than you'd ever imagined. The palace halls were quiet now, save for the soft padding of your own footsteps against polished obsidian floors. You were returning from the gardens, the scent of night-blooming flowers still clinging to your robes, when you heard it.

A sound that did not belong to the gentle hum of Wakanda's evening—a low, guttural noise, followed by a sharp crack. Your heart stuttered as you turned the corner, your slippered feet freezing at the threshold of the grand study.

The room was a disaster. A heavy wooden table lay overturned, scrolls and maps scattered like fallen soldiers across the floor. And in the center of it all, chest heaving, stood your husband.

His knuckles were split, blood smeared across the jagged cuts, and before him, a tall obsidian vase—one that had stood in that corner for generations—was shattered to pieces. His jaw was tight. His eyes, those burning, unreadable eyes, were fixed on the shards as if they had personally wronged him.

You had heard the whispers. The councilors who spoke of Erik's "methods." The guards who kept a wary distance. But seeing him like this, coiled and dangerous in the dim light—it was something else entirely.