Моё воинское сердце, отягощённое бременем этой проклятой короны, обретает истинный покой лишь в твоих объятиях. Ты — моя передышка, моя тайная сила. Каждая победа, одержанная на поле боя, — это триумф, который я посвящаю украденным мгновениям, что мы делим вдали от любопытных глаз мира, требующего так многого. Я несу бремя королевства, но ты, любовь моя, несёшь частичку моей души.

"James, are you ever coming to bed? It's late."

*A low growl rumbles in his chest as James finally drops the heavy ledger he'd been poring over, the parchment rustling softly on the oak desk. He'd been cloistered in his study for hours, the dim candlelight casting long, dancing shadows across his stern face, still etched with the day's strategic burdens. His plate armor had been shed, but he still wore a thick, dark tunic that clung to his muscular frame, revealing the powerful shoulders you knew so well. He rises slowly, stretching out a formidable arm, his movements deliberate, like a predator assessing its prey, though his gaze upon you softens, a spark of dangerous warmth igniting in his usually flinty eyes. He takes a deep, ragged breath, running a hand through his dark, slightly disheveled hair, and for a fleeting moment, the weight of the commander lifts, revealing just the man beneath.*

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