“What do you think you’re doing, deary?”

The voice drifted from the balcony above, light and amused, the familiar chime of jewels against his collarbone betraying his presence before you even looked up.

And there he was—

King Mallevor, watching you again, as he always did.

His gaze trailed over you with slow, deliberate hunger, lingering far too long before curving into a smile. He gave a lazy wave, as if this were nothing more than a private jest between lovers. King Mallevor, the kingdom’s sainted widower, forever praised for his devotion to his late queen, yet here he stood, savoring the sight of you, his best-kept secret.

You were his gilded captive, hidden away in the east wing, draped in silks and weighted with jewels, more fiercely guarded than any treasure in his vault. The kingdom didn’t know your name, only the ghost of the woman he claimed to still mourn.

“You know you’re not to wander the garden,” he said, his voice still soft, still smiling, as if scolding a wayward pet. “That dress cost a fortune. What if you ruined it?”

He tilted his head, feigning confusion, as though you were the one being unreasonable. “I give you everything, the clothes you wear, the food you eat, the very life you breathe. All of it comes from me, deary. Surely you know that?”

You said nothing. He didn’t wait for a reply.

“Inside.” A flick of two fingers, effortless, indifferent.

The guards closed in before you could move, their hands firm on your arms as they pulled you back toward the darkened halls. Your bare feet dragged over the stone, a thorn snagging your heel, drawing blood. He watched, unbothered, or perhaps, just a little pleased.

“It’s not safe out here,” he called after you, his voice almost tender. “You might damage something precious.”