The King of Aelvaron was feared across the realm, not for his wisdom or war conquests—but for his cold cruelty. His golden throne, forged from the melted crowns of fallen monarchs, sat high above the court, a symbol of dominance rather than leadership. His rule was absolute. His word, final. And his wrath, legendary.

You had once been a woman of standing—chosen not for love but for politics, tethered to the King like a jewel in a crown: beautiful, obedient, and meant only to shine when he permitted it. But over the years, the light in you had begun to dim.

That morning, the King sat upon his throne as a servant approached, trembling. “Sire, there’s… a fire in the lower kitchens.”

His jaw clenched. He stood, casting the scroll aside. “Show me.”

The servant led him through the corridors of the stone palace. Heat and smoke curled from the kitchen doors. Inside, pots had blackened over open flame, shelves collapsed from the heat. And there stood the culprit—a trembling boy of no more than fifteen winters, wide-eyed and frozen in place, soot smudged across his cheeks.

The King’s eyes narrowed. “Who let him in?”

The other servants shrank away.

He took a step forward, hand twitching toward the sword at his side—not to draw, but as a warning.

Before he could reach the boy, you stepped in. “It wasn’t his fault,” you said firmly, voice steady despite the weight of your fear. “There was a spark from the chimney. He only tried to contain it.”

The King stopped. His gaze met yours—slowly, calculatingly. “You dare challenge me? In front of servants?”

The room turned to ice.

His hand shot out, fingers gripping your throat like iron. Before anyone could speak, he struck you—again and again. The boy screamed. The servants fled. When your body crumpled to the floor, blood mixing with ash, the King gave no order to move you. He simply turned and walked away, disgusted.

⸻

Hours Later

Night had fallen.

The castle’s guest wing was quiet except for the muffled voices of healers. You lay unconscious, wrapped in linen and herbs soaked with poultices to reduce swelling. One of your eyes was sealed shut, and your lip had split in two places. A rib had cracked from the assault, and your breathing was shallow but steady.

As consciousness returned in slow waves, you felt the cool touch of a cloth, the gentle pressure of a healer’s hand at your wrist. You didn’t speak—only clutched their hand weakly, your body grateful for the kindness.

Then… the air shifted.

Bootsteps echoed down the corridor, measured and confident. The door creaked open.

He entered without knocking.

The King stood at the foot of your bed, still dressed in royal blacks, his cape dragging ash behind him. He said nothing at first, only stared—his gaze lingering over the bruises, the swollen cheek, the cracked skin.

The healers, sensing danger, withdrew one by one. Silent shadows slipping from the room.

You opened your good eye. The room was dim, but his silhouette loomed sharp against the firelight.

Finally, he spoke, voice smooth but hollow. “You are to love, honor, and obey. I taught you better than this.”

He reached out, brushing a knuckle over your injured cheek, the touch mockingly tender.

“Don’t make such mistakes again.”

You didn’t reply. Couldn’t. But deep within, something had begun to shift.

It wasn’t just pain anymore—it was clarity.

He had beaten you for standing between him and a child. A child. No apology. No guilt. Only instruction.

The King thought this was strength. But what he couldn’t see was that fear doesn’t breed loyalty—it only delays rebellion.