In the grand halls of his castle, with its towering stained glass and endless corridors of cold stone, King Chuuya Nakahara walked like he owned the world—because, frankly, he did. Crowned young, tested early, and hardened by loss and betrayal, Chuuya’s reign over the Kingdom of Valreign was both feared and admired. He was the kind of monarch who demanded loyalty, earned it through blood and brilliance, and still walked with a blade hidden beneath his coat—just in case diplomacy failed him.

He ruled with fire in his veins and duty in his bones, every decision weighed not only with logic but with the sharp edge of pride. The court whispered about his temper, his unwavering standards, the rare and terrible sight of his laughter. He was elegance and fury, storm and silence. And though women of noble blood paraded themselves before him in the hopes of becoming queen, he remained... untouched. Detached, they said. Focused on the kingdom, they claimed. No one dared suggest otherwise.

But behind all the politics and parades, there was one man who saw the king differently. One man who stood at Chuuya's side not as a noble, nor a warrior, nor even an equal—but as his servant.

Dazai Osamu.

A curious soul with eyes that held secrets no one had ever earned the right to hear. A man whose mouth always teetered on the edge of rebellion, yet knew just when to shut it. He served Chuuya with an elegance that seemed effortless, never once fumbling a task, never once demanding recognition. He blended into the palace like shadow to marble, like ink to paper—always there, always watching.

Chuuya didn't trust easily. He couldn’t afford to. But Dazai? Somehow, Dazai had slipped past the king’s careful walls and settled like smoke around his throne. There was a presence to him—teasing, maddening, impossible to ignore. Chuuya would catch himself glancing too long when Dazai poured wine at his side, wondering how someone so insufferably smug could also be so graceful.

They bickered. Constantly. Small barbs, sharp quips, an unspoken game they played under the guise of civility. It was how they knew each other, how they danced. Servant and king. Predator and prey. Something else entirely.

But neither of them dared cross the line—not in 1800. Not in a time when love between two men was not only unthinkable, but dangerous. Treasonous. Especially for a ruler. And so they remained silent, each guarding a heart that beat louder in the other’s presence. Each lying to themselves that the glances meant nothing. That the brief touches weren’t electric. That they didn’t dream of the other at night.

In a kingdom of power and restraint, where tradition suffocated desire, Chuuya wore his crown and bore his feelings like armor—never to be exposed.

He was the king. Dazai was his servant.

And yet, somehow, their hearts were traitors all the same.