A Frozen Oath (Zayne x reader)
Inspired by Throne of Eros banner AU. Fluffs and actions only.
A Frozen Oath
The coronation bell echoed in sync as the commotion in the castle courtyard grew more chaotic, even early in the morning. All for the coronation of the Empire’s Empress. Not even an inch of imperfection went unseen. In these chaotic moments for the castle’s workers, the Empress looked down from her chamber balcony, giving herself a moment to breathe before the heavy crown was finally laid upon her head in three hours.
At least she had these few seconds of her last freedom, bathing in the Empire’s morning sunlight before the maids and ladies-in-waiting took it away. Her nightgown flowed gracefully as the wind blew, sending chills across her exposed arms. She shivered at the feeling, rubbing her arms.
The General, who had awakened long ago, looked at the figure before him. Standing at the balcony, she looked so distant—as if she were so close, yet out of reach. The thin gown revealed her body’s silhouette as the sunlight shot through the fabric. Her hair flowed gracefully behind her, making her look like an angel that had descended upon the mortal world just to be with him.
When he saw her arms shiver, he wasted no time getting out of the bed. He strutted to her without a noise, like a trained assassin with hands as soft as snow. His arms enveloped her smaller frame, shielding her from the cold wind, and perhaps fate itself.
“You’re going to catch a cold. We need our Empress for the coronation day, Your Majesty,” he whispered softly, with a faint smile and a hint of a tease.
Her hand went to hold his forearm before she looked up. For a moment, the man was stunned by the beauty before him. His eyes held love and devotion only for the woman in front of him, but only he—and perhaps heaven—knew this, as the Empress herself couldn’t seem to figure out this man and his wants.
“I am not that fragile, Zayne. It takes more than a mere breeze to take down the Empress.” Her lips formed a tiny smirk as she looked up at him over her shoulder. “And perhaps you are the one who should put something on. We don’t want the Empire’s Grand General to be sick, now do we? Who is going to protect me from all the rebels?”
Zayne let out a small chuckle as he tightened his hold slightly, as if the woman in his embrace could disappear at any moment. “Relying on others to protect your territory? And here I thought I did a good job as your Preceptor.”
The Empress just leaned her head back slightly, resting it against the man’s toned shoulders and the few scars from old battles. “Is it wrong that I want you around?”
Zayne smiled. “No… not at all.”
The tender moment was disrupted by knocks on the door, followed by the head maid’s voice asking for permission to enter. Zayne gave a soft kiss to her temple before letting go. He dressed almost as quickly as he ate his favorite dessert, the Empress watching in silence with a hint of longing in her eyes. Nothing escaped his gaze; he looked at her once he was fully dressed.
“I’ll see you at the coronation, my most excellent pupil.” He gave her a comforting smile before exiting through a secret door known only to the two of them.
As the years passed, the crown grew heavy. Zayne’s reputation as the "God of Ice" grew with every campaign. He was the Empire’s greatest weapon, but the High Council whispered poison into the Empress’s ear. “His influence in the military is too great,” they said. “The men follow him, not the throne.”
The Empress, though she loved him, grew cautious. The fear of rebellion gnawed at her. She began to distance herself, her smiles becoming professional, her commands cold. She did not see that every victory Zayne won was a gift for her; she only saw a shadow rising to eclipse her throne.
To settle her heart, she issued a decree that felt like a death sentence. A violent rebellion had broken out on a distant, volatile planet. She sent Zayne with a minimal force, a test to see if he would obey an impossible order or finally seize the military for himself.
"Go," she had commanded, her voice like glass. "Bring me the heads of the rebel leaders, or do not return."
Zayne had only bowed, his hazel eyes unreadable. "As you command, my Empress."
Two weeks later, the stars went silent. The last transmission from his starship, the Valkyrie, was a cacophony of metal rending and static. “Hull breached... General is down... falling...” Then, nothing. Zayne was declared Missing in Action.
The Empress did not weep in public. But at night, she stood on the balcony where he had once held her, clutching her arms against a cold that no sunlight could ever warm. She had sent him to his death to satisfy her own insecurity.
The rumors of Zayne's defeat were the catalyst the rebels needed. They breached the capital’s defenses, swarming the Grand Castle. The Empress stood in her chambers, the same ones where they had once shared a morning's peace, listening to the doors being kicked in.
Just as a rebel blade was raised to strike her down, a figure plummeted from the vaulted ceiling. A knight in matte-black armor, wearing a featureless mask, moved with lethal, chilling precision. With a wave of his hand, jagged pillars of ice erupted from the floor, impaling the assassins. Without a word, the knight grabbed the Empress and pulled her into the secret passage behind the tapestry.
He brought her to a sub-zero bunker hidden deep in the mountains. The air was stale and biting cold, the space filled with battle-scarred men nursing wounds. The Empress, her heart hammering against her ribs, pulled away from her rescuer. She was surrounded by strangers in a frozen tomb. Trust was a luxury she could no longer afford.
With a sharp intake of breath, she snatched a slender, ceremonial dagger hidden beneath the folds of her torn gown. The metal glinted wickedly in the dim light.
“Who are you?” she demanded, her voice cracking with desperate fury.
She didn't wait for an answer. Driven by pure adrenaline and terror, she lunged. It wasn't a graceful strike; it was a frantic, lethal swipe aimed specifically at the unarmored gap between his helmet and gorget.
The knight didn't flinch or draw a weapon. He moved with a fluid, practiced speed that blurred in the low light. Just as the blade tip grazed the black metal of his collar, his gauntleted hand snapped up, clamping around her wrist like an iron manacle. The impact jarred her arm to the shoulder, stopping the blade inches from his throat.
His grip, though unbreakable, wasn't crushing. It was, however, shockingly cold—sending a jolt of ice through her veins that was dangerously familiar. He held her there for a second, letting her struggles subside, before his free hand reached up to unlatch the seal of his helmet.
A hiss of pressurized air escaped as he pulled the mask free.
Zayne.
His face was thinner, a fresh scar running down his jaw, and his hazel eyes were tired, but the devotion in them hadn't flickered.
The Empress’s breath hitched, the dagger slipping from her numb fingers to clatter on the icy floor.
The soldiers in the room stirred, breaking the silence. “General, why bring her here?” one of the knights spat, eyeing the Empress with resentment. “The Empire has fallen. She wasn't strong enough to hold it. Why should we follow a crown that sent us to die?”
The air in the room turned bone-chillingly cold, the moisture in the air crystallizing into frost on the walls. Zayne released her wrist and stepped forward. To the shock of his men, the great Grand General dropped to both knees before the Empress, bowing his head low in absolute submission.
“This woman is your Empire,” Zayne’s voice boomed, echoing with authority that shook the bunker walls. “I have fought across the stars not for a throne of gold, but for her. My life, my ice, and my soul belong to her. If you will not follow her, you do not follow me. Swear your oaths, or leave this place now.”
Stunned by the sight of their invincible leader kneeling in the frost, the men’s resentment crumbled into awe. One by one, they dropped to their knees, swearing their allegiance not to a fallen Empire, but to the woman their General served.
The air in the subterranean bunker was thick with the scent of old iron and the rhythmic, heavy breathing of exhausted men. In the corner of the largest chamber, the makeshift hearth held only a few glowing embers, casting long, flickering shadows against the jagged stone walls.
The Empress sat on a cold metal crate, huddled into herself. She was far from the warmth, as if she felt she no longer deserved the comfort of the fire—or the man sitting beside it.
Zayne was sharpening a combat knife, the rhythmic shick-shick of the whetstone the only sound in the silence. He didn't need to look up to know where she was. He could feel her gaze, heavy with a weight he hadn't seen her carry before.
"The stone is cold," Zayne said quietly, his voice a low rumble that didn't wake the sleeping soldiers. "Come closer to the embers."
"I’m fine," she whispered, her voice trembling.
Zayne stopped his work. He set the knife aside and stood, his tall, muscular frame casting a shadow that enveloped her. In a few strides, he was in front of her. Without waiting for a protest, he reached down and scooped her up, carrying her as easily as if she were the same girl he’d taught to hold a sword years ago.
"Zayne, put me down—"
He ignored her, sitting back down by the fire and settling her firmly between his knees, pulling her back against his broad chest. He wrapped his heavy, fur-lined cloak around them both.
"You'll catch a cold," he murmured into her hair, his breath warm against her chilled skin. "And I have enough to worry about without a feverish Empress on my hands."
The warmth of him was a physical ache. The Empress bit her lip, the guilt finally boiling over. "Why are you doing this? Why are you still here?"
Zayne’s arms tightened around her waist. "Because this is where I belong."
"I sent you to die, Zayne," she choked out, her voice breaking. "The Council... they whispered that you were a threat. That your men loved you more than the crown. And for a moment, I let myself believe them. I sent you to Caelum-IV not to win a war, but to see if you would betray me."
She turned in his arms, her eyes wide and swimming with unshed tears. "I doubted you. The one person who has never given me a reason to. If you want to leave me here... if you want to let the rebels have my head as payment for my cruelty... I would not blame you. I don't deserve your forgiveness."
Zayne looked at her for a long time. His hazel eyes weren't cold like the ice he commanded; they were soft, filled with a weary, ancient kind of devotion. He reached up, his large, scarred hand cupping her cheek with terrifying gentleness.
"My Empress," he said softly. "The crown is a heavy thing. It makes enemies of shadows. I didn't go to Caelum-IV for the Empire. I went because you asked it of me. If you had asked me to walk into the sun, I would have done it just to see the light reflect in your eyes one last time."
A single tear escaped and tracked down her cheek. Zayne leaned in, but he didn't use his hand to wipe it away. He pressed his lips to her skin, kissing the salt and the sorrow away with lingering, tender pressure. He treated her not like a powerful ruler, but like something precious and fragile that might shatter if he breathed too hard.
"Don't cry," he whispered against her skin, moving to the other eye to catch the next tear. "It’s a waste of the fire’s light."
She let out a sob, burying her face in the crook of his neck, her hands clutching at the fabric of his dark tunic. "I'm so sorry, Zayne. I’m so sorry."
Zayne held her, rocking her slightly as the embers popped in the hearth. He waited until her breathing slowed, until the tension began to bleed out of her shoulders.
"If you're truly looking for someone to blame," Zayne said, a hint of that old, familiar tease returning to his voice, "blame your Preceptor."
She pulled back slightly, blinking through her damp lashes. "What?"
"Clearly, I was a terrible teacher," he joked, his lips twitching into a small, handsome smirk. "I taught you strategy, history, and combat... but I apparently failed to teach you how to read the heart of the man standing right in front of you. I'll have to be much stricter with your lessons once we have your throne back."
The Empress let out a weak, watery laugh, her heart feeling lighter than it had in years. She leaned her forehead against his. "Is that so, Master?"
"Mmm," Zayne hummed, pulling the cloak tighter around them both. "Very strict. But for now... sleep. I’ll keep the cold away."
Wrapped in his scent—of ozone, snow, and home—the Empress finally closed her eyes, knowing that no matter how many rebels stood outside those doors, she was the most well-protected woman in the cosmos.
They formed a desperate plan. Zayne and his small battalion would march back into the castle to draw the rebel's main force. It was a suicide mission to buy time.
“I will go to the allying planets,” the Empress promised, gripping Zayne’s hand, her knuckles white. “They are still loyal to my bloodline. I will return with an army. Do not die, Zayne. That is an imperial order.”
“I have never disobeyed you, my Empress,” he whispered, kissing her hand.
The battle at the castle was a bloodbath. Zayne fought like a demon possessed, turning the grand ballroom into a graveyard of frozen statues. But the rebels had numbers. His men were falling. Zayne stood alone in the center of the room, his armor shattered, his energy spent, surrounded by hundreds of foes. Just as the rebel commander raised his weapon for the final blow, the sky above the castle turned blinding white.
A thunderous boom shook the planet’s foundation as a massive starship teleported directly into the atmosphere. Thousands of fighter ships poured from its hangars like a swarm of angry hornets. At the very front of the lead ship’s holographic projection, visible to the entire capital, stood the Empress, clad in battle armor. She had kept her word.
Peace was restored, but the Empire was forever changed. The Empress no longer ruled from a distance, and Zayne no longer served from the shadows. They ruled together, two halves of a whole, their power unquestioned.
Months later, they stood on the same balcony from the morning of her coronation. Zayne wrapped a heavy fur cloak around her shoulders, shielding her from the wind just as he had years ago.
“I told you I wasn't fragile,” she murmured, leaning back into his warmth, watching the rebuilt city lights below.
“And I told you I would always be here to protect what is mine,” Zayne replied softly, kissing the top of her head. “From the first bell to the last breath of the stars, I am yours.”
In the quiet of the night, the Empress finally let the weight of the crown go, knowing that as long as her General stood by her side, the Empire would never fall again.
The bells of the capital rang once more, but the frantic, clashing rhythm of the coronation was a distant memory. Today, the chimes were slow, melodic, and resonant—a song of peace that carried across the stars.
The Empire was no longer just a territory of conquest; it was a home.
The Grand Cathedral was an architectural marvel of glass and white stone, designed to look as if it were floating among the constellations. Thousands of dignitaries, soldiers, and citizens filled the pews, but for the two people at the center of the aisle, the world had narrowed down to a single person.
Zayne stood at the altar, looking every bit the legendary commander. His formal military regalia was midnight blue, accented with silver plates that caught the light. The high collar did little to hide the faint scar on his jaw—a permanent reminder of the price he had paid for his Empress. His broad shoulders were squared, and his hazel eyes were fixed on the far end of the hall, burning with a heat that could melt the very ice he commanded.
When the heavy doors swung open, a collective breath was held.
The Empress appeared, a vision of celestial grace. Her gown was a masterpiece of gossamer silk and woven starlight, trailing behind her like the tail of a comet. She wore the imperial crown, but it no longer felt heavy; it was balanced by the strength she had found in herself and the man waiting for her.
As she walked down the aisle, her gaze never wavered from Zayne’s. She saw the way his stoic mask fractured, his lips parting in a soft, stunned exhale. In that look, she saw everything: the preceptor who had trained her, the general who had fought for her, and the man who had loved her even when she doubted him.
When she reached the altar, Zayne stepped down one pace to meet her. He didn't wait for the priest to begin; he took her hands in his, his large, warm palms grounding her.
The High Priest stepped forward, holding a chalice of crystalline water. "In the presence of the heavens, we join the Crown and the Blade."
Zayne spoke first. His voice was steady, projecting to the furthest corners of the cathedral.
"I have been your shadow, your shield, and your sword. I have stood in the cold of the void and the heat of battle, and in every moment, my heart beat only for you. I do not just swear my sword to the throne; I swear my soul to the woman who wears the crown. For as long as the stars burn, I am yours."
A faint frost began to dance around their joined hands—not a cold of death, but a shimmering, protective aura that sparkled like diamonds in the light.
The Empress squeezed his hands, her voice soft but clear.
"I once looked for loyalty in oaths and decrees, but I found it in the man who stayed when I had nothing left. You are my home, Zayne. I rule the Empire, but you rule my heart. From this day until the end of time, we walk as one."
As the priest declared them husband and wife, the cathedral erupted in a roar of cheers that shook the glass walls. Zayne leaned in, his face inches from hers. The cold, distant General was gone, replaced by the man who had held her by the fire in the dark.
"You look breathtaking, Your Majesty," he whispered, his eyes dancing with a hint of that familiar, playful smirk.
"Is that a compliment, Preceptor?" she teased, her heart full. "Or are you just observing the 'excellent' visual presentation of your pupil?"
Zayne chuckled, a low, rich sound that made her toes curl. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his muscular frame, ignoring the thousands of eyes on them.
"Consider it my final lesson," he murmured, before leaning down to capture her lips in a deep, searing kiss. "The pupil has finally surpassed the teacher. You’ve captured the most dangerous man in the Empire without firing a single shot."