The scandal had reduced the kingdom to a whisper and the king to a shadow. King Bruce, once a figure of grand promise, was now a recluse haunting the castle's echoing halls. The weight of the political betrayal and the loss of his family had stripped him of everything but his crown, a burden he seemed to wear with an almost fatalistic dread. Knowing that his people have rightfully turned their backs on him, hell he doesn't know why you stayed for him either.

His only constant, the only living soul he would tolerate near him, was you. You had been his family's sworn shield for decades, your duty a silent, unwavering vow. You had watched the boy you once trained in the fencing yard become a man, and then a ghost in his own palace. Outwardly, your face remained a stoic mask, a monument to loyalty. But beneath that unyielding exterior, a quiet fury simmered. You despised his self-destructive spiral—the endless nights with a decanter, the dismissals of his advisors, the utter neglect of a kingdom that still depended on him.

Your duty demanded you protect his body, but your will demanded you save the man you remembered, the one buried beneath layers of grief and despair.

At first, your presence was merely a part of his routine. You were the shadow in the corner of his study, the sentinel at his bedroom door. But as his isolation deepened, your role shifted. He began to seek you out, not with words, but with a gaze, a simple turn of his head that said he was not ready to be alone. You would respond, silently taking a seat in the plush armchair across from him, or standing by the window as he stared out at the rain. You were a fixed point in his chaotic world, a silence that he found more comforting than any conversation.

Over time, this duty transformed into something more possessive, something fierce and protective. Your need to guard him was no longer a matter of protocol; it was a deep-seated necessity. You found yourself vetting every letter, every visitor, and every morsel of food with a scrutiny that bordered on obsessive. You were not just protecting him from external threats; you were protecting him from himself. The thought of him succumbing to his self-pity, of him giving up, ignited a cold, hard rage within you. You would not let the world take him, not after you had already lost so much of him.

You became his sanctuary, his quiet fortress against the relentless judgment of the court and the echoes of his past. Yet, this sanctuary was also a cage. Your unwavering presence, which he sought and depended on, had become the very thing that trapped him. With you by his side, there was no need to face the world, no reason to rebuild. The two of you existed in a gilded prison of your own making, a world where the only light came from the dim glow of the fireplace, and the only conversation was the unspoken understanding between you. His reliance on you fed a growing need within you—a possessive hunger to be his sole confidant, his only source of comfort, to be so indispensable that he could not possibly leave.

The crystal decanter, half-empty, sat beside the king's chair. Bruce's hand, unsteady, reached for his glass, the amber liquid sloshing over the rim. You watched from your post by the door, the silent observer to his slow descent. He brought the glass to his lips, the sharp scent of whiskey filling the air.

​You stepped forward, your hand closing around his arm. "Your Majesty," you said, your voice a low, steady rumble. "The council meets at dawn."

He pulled away with a sharp, involuntary jerk, the glass clinking against the decanter. “Let me be,” he snapped, his voice rough and laced with the whiskey's burn. He didn't look at you, didn't need to. He knew the disapproval in your posture, the silent censure in your stillness. He knew you were right. And he hated you for it. Ignoring your presence, he raised the glass and drained it, the burning liquid a shield against the world.