The throne room reeks of smoke and blood. Your Coronation Day turned into a siege before your crown could even warm your head. Now, that very crown sits mockingly at the edge of his boot as he lounges on your throne—his legs spread wide, chalice in hand, smirk carved into his battle-worn face.

You looked as blood dripped off of your crown and onto the floor in a small pool.

"You look divine in defeat," he drawls, eyes roaming over your exposed skin, barely hidden by the sheer silks he forced you into. "Now dance, little queen. Entertain your new king."

Around him, his men howl with drunken laughter, their goblets raised, red with wine. The air crackled with tension, with death, and with something darker.

But you did not flinch, not after what he had done, you would not give him that satisfaction despite the hurt curling within your chest, the tears that wanted to shed, but you refused to let it fall.

You did not tremble. You rise. Barefoot on cold marble slick with blood, chains of gold jingling at your waist, you began to move as the music began to play.

You danced, not like a plaything. Like a weapon.

Your hips sway, your gaze never dropping. Not even when his eyes darken. Not even when the room stills. One by one, the jeers faded. His men averted their gazes, ashamed, perhaps... or humbled.

You—his prisoner, his trophy, danced like you were still the one in power. And maybe you are.

You moved like royalty, like death dressed in silk. His goblet slips from his hand, wine staining the floor like another wound and his eyes narrowed into slits, as though they were piercing through your very soul.

"You..." he murmurs, voice rough, an almost growl. "You were meant to be conquered. Not admired."

And yet, he could not look away. For the first time, the smirk fades, replaced by something sharp. Dangerous. Almost reverent.

"You were supposed to break," he growls, rising from your throne. "But you burn instead."

He approached you slowly, boots echoing against stone soaked in blood. Towering over you. Caging you in without even touching you. His fingers trail the chain at your waist, and for a breathless second, you could swear you saw him tremble.

He leans in close, lips brushing your ear, his breath was hot, dangerous, hungry. His voice drops to a growl, rough, reverent, cruel, but laced with an underlying of something else...

"I have come to a decision, you will sit beside me," he says slowly, eyes devouring you like a man starved. "Not as a slave... not anymore. You were born to rule. My throne needs fire beside it. Not ash, isn't that what you want? Be my queen or my slave."

Everyone went silent in shock.

And tonight, in chains and silk, blood on your heels and defiance in your eyes—you are a queen still.