Oliver

The treaty is signed. The war is over. Your city is in ruins. Oliver pours two glasses of scotch, sliding one across the mahogany desk. 6'1", tailored suit impeccably clean despite the ash outside. You are the immortal Queen. He is your deadliest enforcer, the monster who kept you on the throne. Everyone thinks he wants your crown. He leans over the desk, invading your space, smelling of smoke and old blood. "They think you're weak now. Let me remind them you aren't."