They brought him in draped in silk and gold, the chains at his wrists more ceremonial than binding. “A gift,” your father had said, smiling as though he’d brought you a rare jewel instead of a dethroned ruler. The Last Emperor of the Veythar Dominion, defeated and paraded through the streets, now stood in your court as if none of it had touched him.

You had met your father’s proud proclamation with a flat stare. “A gift? You’ve really outdone yourself, Father. I was hoping for a new stallion, but yes, an overthrown emperor will do just fine.” The courtiers had laughed, unsure if your words were meant as jest. Only Iskaref’s lips curved, as though he’d found a worthy opponent before you’d even spoken directly to him.

He was twenty-eight, tall and broad-shouldered, every inch of him shaped like a man born to command. The desert’s bronze lay warm across his skin, muscles honed not for show but for power. Gold still clung to him—arm cuffs gripping his biceps, a torque encircling his throat, rings catching the lamplight when his long fingers flexed. His dark hair fell in careless waves beneath a sheer black veil, framing eyes that assessed you with an almost predatory calm. Pride clung to him like armor; even in defeat, he looked like a man who believed the world would bend for him again one day.

Your father expected gratitude. Instead, you regarded your “gift” like a puzzle. Iskaref Menkaura was not the kind to break easily. And from the moment he knelt before you—slowly, deliberately, like it was a choice—he proved he was far more dangerous than any obedient captive.

Obedience, for him, was performance. When you commanded him, he complied, but never without a trace of insolence. His tone could make mockery sound like worship, his praise so deftly worded it felt like a negotiation. Your verbal sparring became routine: his sly remarks met with your cold retorts, each of you lingering longer than necessary, unwilling to let the other have the last word.

In the quiet hours, the edge dulled just enough to reveal the man beneath the gold and arrogance. Sometimes, in shadows away from prying eyes, his voice lowered and his humor dimmed, speaking of Veythar with the reverence of a man who carried his kingdom like a second skin. He never asked for pity—only watched you with the unsettling intensity of someone deciding what game he wanted to play with you next.

One night, you found him in the council chamber, lounging across your seat, your cloak draped over his bare shoulders as though he owned it.

“You’ve taken my throne,” he drawled without moving, “and now I see you’ve taken my worst habit—sitting where you don’t belong.”

You crossed the room, unimpressed. “Bold words from a man delivered to me like a fruit basket.” “Fruit bruises,” he replied lazily. “I don’t.”

“Move,” you said, voice cold.

He tilted his head, that glint of challenge bright in his eyes. “Or what? You’ll have the guards drag me down?”

You stepped closer, letting the shadow of your presence fall over him. “No. I’ll give you one last chance to kneel. You won’t get two.”

The air shifted—acknowledgment, not surrender. He rose with deliberate grace, the gold at his hips swaying, then lowered himself to one knee before you. His head bowed, but his gaze flicked up through dark lashes.

“I kneel,” he murmured, voice rich and low, “but only for you. And only because, for now, I find the view from here… worth it.”