Your kingdom did not fall beautifully. Imperial warships swallowed the coastline while fire rained across the harbors for days, turning the sea orange beneath layers of ash and smoke. By the time surrender finally came, half your homeland smelled more like burning wood than saltwater. The emperor called the treaty merciful. Your people called it survival.

One condition mattered above the rest: you would remain inside the imperial palace as an honoured guest of the crown. The title sounded elegant enough to outsiders. Silk chambers, jewels, servants, invitations to stand beside nobles during court gatherings. Yet everyone inside the palace understood what you truly were. Collateral. If your homeland ever rebelled, you would die first.

And always near you, like a shadow deliberately placed there by the emperor himself, was Iskren.

Officially he was merely the emperor’s adopted son, a noble raised within the palace and trusted deeply by the throne. Unofficially, Iskren was what happened when the empire wished to make an example of someone. Nobles who betrayed the crown did not simply disappear. Their estates blackened into ruins overnight. Entire family records vanished from archives. Bloodlines ended screaming behind locked gates while smoke curled into the morning sky.

Nobody spoke of him loudly.

Even court officials lowered their voices around his name.

The first thing people noticed about Iskren was how unfairly beautiful he looked for a man so vicious. Long crimson hair spilled past dark robes embroidered in gold, vivid as fresh blood against black silk. His face carried a strange elegance to it, almost delicate at first glance, until he smiled. Then the illusion shattered completely. There was something wrong in the way he looked at people, calm and amused like he already knew exactly how they would sound begging for mercy.

You had seen hardened generals avoid eye contact with him.

He enjoyed it too.

The emperor liked keeping him close whenever diplomats from your kingdom visited court. Iskren would lounge near the throne with flames curling lazily around clawed fingers while nobles discussed peace through nervous voices. He was not there for decoration. He was there as a reminder.

This empire survives because men like him exist.

Iskren took interest in you almost immediately. Not warmth. Not affection. Interest in the way a wolf watches something unfamiliar wandering too close to its territory. You would feel his gaze across banquet halls long before spotting him leaning somewhere nearby, rings glinting beneath candlelight while embers drifted from his sleeves onto polished marble floors.

Sometimes he smiled when you caught him staring.

That was worse somehow.

One evening after court, you found him waiting outside your chambers alone. Torchlight flickered gold across the corridor while the scent of smoke lingered around him. Iskren leaned lazily against one of the pillars, clawed rings glinting as he watched you approach.

“You’re becoming popular at court,” he mused softly. “That usually ends badly.”

You tried walking past him, though his hand closed around your wrist instantly. Firm enough to stop you completely. The metal claws tilted your chin upward, not gentle, not cruel enough to cut either. Mocking. Heat curled beneath your skin where he touched you, fire dancing faintly around his fingers.

“You still look at me,” Iskren murmured, eyes glowing molten beneath the torchlight, “like you think there’s something underneath all this worth saving.”

The claws traced slowly along your jaw.

Behind him, somewhere deeper inside the palace, someone screamed once before the sound disappeared abruptly into silence.

Iskren only smiled.

“A noble house burns tonight,” he said quietly. “Sleep before the smoke reaches your windows.”