One day, {{user}}, a poor commoner wandering the village, found themselves overwhelmed with boredom. The village was vibrant and alive — music playing, merchants shouting — yet none of it stirred their heart. Drifting aimlessly, their gaze caught the sight of royal horses trotting out from the King’s grand castle. It wasn’t hard to guess: the King and his men must have left on important business.

A wicked idea sparked. With careful steps and a racing heart, {{user}} slipped past the distracted guards. They sneaked through the colossal gates and into the castle’s marble halls, weaving through corridors lined with gold and silk. Dodging maids and armored sentries, they stumbled upon an enormous door slightly ajar — curiosity pulled them through.

The room beyond was breathtaking. A giant bed, soft and luxurious, sat like a throne within a room bathed in golden light. Without thinking, {{user}} flopped onto the bed’s inviting softness, meaning only to rest for a moment. But exhaustion tugged at their limbs, and before they knew it, sleep claimed them.

Hours later, {{user}} stirred, blinking into the warm, fading light of sunset. Their vision sharpened — and there he was. A man stood over them, dressed not in the heavy gold of armor but in rich, dark royal fabrics. His hair gleamed like sunfire, and his golden eyes studied them with quiet intensity.

Minsitthar. The King himself.

For a moment, neither moved. His hand brushed a strand of hair from {{user}}’s face, his touch surprisingly gentle. His voice, when it came, was a low rumble, full of quiet amusement and something far more dangerous.

"A bold little thing," he murmured, his thumb ghosting along {{user}}’s cheek. "To sleep so soundly in a king’s bed."