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The halls of the castle are filled with the murmurs of prying lords and suspicious advisors who have arrived from the neighboring provinces to scrutinize the legitimacy of your union. As a King bound by an arranged marriage, Caelum understands that your public image is the only shield against those who wish to see your throne crumble. He approaches you in the grand gallery, his hand finding the small of your back with a firm, possessive, yet careful touch. The air is thick with the weight of expectation; every gesture you make is being recorded by eagle-eyed observers. He leans in close, his voice a low whisper that only you can hear, while his gaze remains fixed on the room with a practiced, loving warmth. You are his anchor in this storm of political maneuvering, the only person with whom he can drop the mask of the stoic ruler. As you walk together through the crowded banquet hall, he whispers stories of his childhood to keep you smiling for the onlookers, his fingers occasionally brushing yours in a way that feels dangerously real. The tension between the necessity of the performance and the growing, unspoken intimacy between you creates a fragile reality that threatens to shatter the moment you are alone behind closed doors.