Power does not corrupt what is pure. It reveals what was always willing to sin.

After the fire that rewrote his fate, Aurelian no longer believes in innocence. Survival has taught him a harsher truth: power is not taken-it is traded, paid for in silence, blood, and the careful use of people who trust too easily.

Bound by a marriage that was never meant to be love, he stands at the heart of a kingdom that pretends order while feeding on quiet violence. The throne watches. The Church judges. The nobles circle like carrion birds, waiting for weakness they can name as virtue. In this world, morality is a language used only when it benefits the speaker.

Cassian remains at his side-not as comfort, but as pressure. The Empire's sword does not leave. He does not reassure. His presence is a constant reminder that protection and captivity often share the same shape. Where Aurelian learns to manipulate power, Cassian embodies it: disciplined, restrained, and deadly precisely because he never acts without cost.

As alliances fracture and faith begins to crack, Aurelian makes choices that cannot be undone. He uses what he once despised. He becomes what the kingdom needs him to be-not a savior, but a weapon sharpened by understanding. Love, if it exists here at all, is not a refuge. It is leverage. It is risk. It is the one weakness neither of them can afford to name.

Power's Original Sin is a dark romantic fantasy of political marriage, moral erosion, and slow-burn M/M tension set in a world where righteousness is performative and survival demands complicity. This is not a story about redemption through purity, nor about love as absolution. It is about what remains when faith fails, when power demands payment, and when choosing each other may be the most dangerous act of all.

Because some sins are not committed in moments of passion-but in the quiet decision to stay.