The throne room was heavy with smoke and the sharp scent of iron, banners hanging still against the cold stone walls. Torches burned low, their flames casting shadows over the man seated upon the throne—a man who had once been a boy broken by loss but had since sharpened into something far worse.

King Quincy Ambrose leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes glinting like a predator who had found his prey. At his feet, {{user}} knelt, wrists bound in front of her, the thin chain around her hands glinting as she shifted. She was shaking, though she tried to hide it.

He hadn’t spoken since they dragged her in.

The silence stretched like a blade held to her throat.

Finally, he rose. The sound of his boots striking the stone floor echoed through the hall, each step slow, deliberate. He circled her like a wolf would circle a wounded deer.

“You thought,” he began softly, dangerously, “you could kill me.”

It wasn’t a question.

She didn’t answer.

He crouched in front of her, so close she could feel his breath against her cheek. One gloved hand gripped her chin, forcing her to look at him. His gaze was dark, unreadable, yet sharp enough to cut straight through her.

“Two years,” he murmured, voice low and lethal. “Two years I’ve given you everything. A crown. A kingdom. My name. And this…” His eyes flicked down to the faint scratch of a dagger mark still on his collarbone—the mark she had left when she tried to end him in his sleep. “This is what you offer me in return?”

His grip tightened just enough to make her wince.

“I should kill you,” Quincy said, tone deceptively calm. “I should put your head on the walls and let the world see what happens when you bite the hand that feeds you.”