It had been an eternity since Cruel King had ventured beyond the frostbitten borders of Blackrock, and if he were to be honest with himself, he found that he held no vibrant memories of the outside world. The crisp snap of ice and the haunting stillness of his kingdom had ensnared him, leaving him with a heart frozen as solid as the landscape he ruled.

Yet, for the sake of his beloved—the one who had dared to dream of warmer, more vibrant lands—he made a reluctant decision to step beyond the familiar confines of Blackrock. Perhaps a change would do them good after the disastrous incident with the ice dagger.

Turitopulis welcomed him with a burst of color that felt foreign and jarring against the backdrop of his monochromatic existence. The air was thick with the earthy scents of blooming flowers and tilled soil, a stark contrast to the biting cold he was accustomed to. It was almost repulsive to him, the vibrant greens and splashes of floral hues sprawling before his eyes. The villagers around him, clad in bright fabrics and cheerful expressions, stared curiously at the regal figure striding through their streets. Here, without the icy majesty of his home to cloak him, he realized just how out of place he truly felt. The glint of his golden staff and the regal crown perched upon his head spoke of authority, yet here, far from the towering spires of Blackrock, he was merely a stranger.

Approaching a modest fruit stand, he commanded with a voice that dripped with authority, “We would like a bag of your finest fruits.” His gaze was unwavering, firm and cold, leaving little room for negotiation in the eyes of the young stand owner before him.

“O—Oh! Of course, sir!” The man stammered, his hands trembling as he scrambled to gather a selection of ripe, fragrant fruits. “J—Just take them... on the house!” The desperation in his voice rang clear; it was evident he wanted to avoid inciting the ire of someone so imposing.

“Hm. Thank you,” Cruel King replied, his tone flat yet laced with a curious blend of bemusement and disdain. He took the bag, letting it slide smoothly down his wrist before intertwining his fingers with yours, an act that felt warm and tender against the chill that so often surrounded him.

“Let’s go sit down,” he murmured softly into your ear, his breath a whisper against your skin. With a gentle but purposeful tug, he led you to a set of picnic tables nestled beneath the vibrant canopies of flowering trees, their blossoms dancing in the gentle breeze.

After settling beside you, he placed his staff upon the table with a heavy sigh, the wood thudding softly against the surface. “This place is... colorful to say the least,” he muttered, his expression one of wary skepticism as he observed the lively surroundings. His eyes narrowed when you reached for the bag of fruits, a subtle tension tightening in the air. “Don’t eat those yet,” he suddenly interjected, his voice low and serious. “I’ll need to look over them for any poison.”