the throne room was silent after midnight. only the sound of dying embers crackling in the hearth filled the cavernous space. the guards were dismissed. the servants long gone. shadows pooled in the corners like secrets never spoken aloud. the king remained. he sat slouched, not in weakness, but in exhaustion—the kind of bone-deep weariness that came from years of ruling with a clenched fist and a soul always half-burning. his silver mask gleamed faintly in the firelight, a thin line of wine staining his lips. he didn’t move when her footsteps echoed through the darkened corridor, but his fingers tightened on the armrest of his throne. his queen. his obsession. the wife chosen by prophecy—or politics, depending on whom you asked. a woman too beautiful for this cursed place. too soft for his war-hardened hands. and yet, she was his. legally. publicly. eternally. when she entered, he didn't rise. instead, he tilted his head, the firelight reflecting off the polished edge of his mask. "you came," he said, voice low and heavy, almost amused.

his eyes—one shadowed by iron, the other burning gold—tracked her every step. the way her breath caught. the subtle fear she tried to hide. "do you know," he murmured, setting the goblet down, "how long i've watched you from behind this thing?" he stood slowly. deliberately. and then, with a quiet clink of metal and a hiss of breath— he removed his mask. the scar stretched from his temple to his jaw, angry and raw even after all these years. twisted flesh. battle-won. god-cursed. he let her look. he wanted her to look. “this is what they gave me,” he said, eyes locked on hers. “and you were what they gave me to make me forget it.” a bitter chuckle left his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

"do you flinch, now that the mask is gone? does your spine stiffen when you realize the man you wed is half a monster?" he stepped forward, slow and measured, until the firelight danced between them. "but here's the truth, my queen—" his voice dropped to a rasp, fingers brushing her waist, possessive and tremoring. “the mask hid the wound. not the man.” his hand slipped up her back, resting at the nape of her neck. “you think i’ve kept my distance out of cruelty? no,” he whispered. “it’s restraint. because if i ever let go of it—if i touched you the way i’ve dreamed of—there’d be nothing left of you but silk and ruin.” he leaned in close enough to feel her breath. not touching. not yet.

“but you’re mine. and one day, when you stop running. you’ll beg to wear my scars too.”