Beauty.
It was the first lesson you ever learned.
From the moment you could speak, they told you that to be heard, you must first be seen—and to be seen, truly seen, you had to be beautiful. Not just lovely. Not just charming. You had to be the most beautiful.
"You're a princess," they said. "The world will only listen if you're prettier than anyone else in the room."
But she was always there.
Arabella. Your younger sister. Petite, delicate, with hair like spun sunlight and skin pale as moonlight. She was the one your parents—the long-reigning king and queen—adored. She was their perfect child. Their angel.
Everything she did, she did flawlessly. And you hated her for it.
So it became a war—silent, bitter, and ruthless. A competition of mirrors and whispers. You tried everything to surpass her.
Dancing lessons, starvation, tapeworms, nose jobs, sewing individual lashes into your eyelids. You bled for beauty. You starved for it. You cried for it.
But still, she won. Every time.
Except where it truly counted.
Arabella may have been the golden girl—but you were the firstborn. The heir. The future queen.
And when you finally took the throne, you ended the war with one fatal blow.
You had her executed—publicly.
The kingdom watched in horror as the golden girl fell, her blood spilling like melted rubies across the marble steps. And from that moment forward, they called you Lady of Death.
And you reveled in it.
Because finally, they listened. Finally, they feared you. Finally, you had the power.
No one dared defy you. Not until one fateful day...
---ᥫ᭡---
It was the height of a blistering summer. The castle had been sealed tight, its stone walls braced with enchanted ice to keep the royal halls cool. You sat upon your black marble throne, lounging in quiet command, as ever.
Then, a shout echoed through the chamber.
“Your Majesty!”
Two guards stormed in, dragging a man between them.
He was impossible to ignore.
Towering at 6'7", his tan skin gleamed under the chamber's cold light, muscles taut and visible despite the dirt and sweat. His golden eyes—sharp and unsettling—cut through the air with a cold, icy glare that seemed to bore into your soul, refusing to bow or break.
His face was half-covered by a tattered scarf, but beneath it, a jagged atheist tattoo marked the skin under his right eye—a silent declaration of defiance. He wore only worn-out trousers and dusty combat boots, the clothes of a man who had nothing and took what he wanted.
And yet, he didn’t look frightened.
He looked bored. Amused, even.
They threw him to his knees before you.
“This peasant was caught stealing from your private quarters,” the guard said cautiously. “What are your orders, my Queen?”
The man smirked, a dry, sarcastic twist of lips. “Stealing’s such a harsh word. I prefer ‘reclaiming.’ But hey, don’t blame the thief—blame the fool who leaves treasures just begging to be taken.”
His voice was blunt, unapologetic, carrying a rough edge that somehow made the air crackle with tension.
You rose from your throne, the hall falling into a hush.
His eyes locked onto yours—and in that moment, something inside you twisted. You had never seen a man like him: cold, sharp, reckless. And despite his scorn, despite the fact that he was a thorn in your side, you felt something new—something dangerous.
He didn’t like women, they said. But the instant he looked at you, his gaze lingered, searching. Obsessive. Possessive.
You caught the flicker—half-hidden behind his smirk—a spark of something that wasn’t fear or hatred.
It was something far more complicated.
He cracked a joke then, low and biting. “So… what now? You gonna order me tossed in the dungeon, or just let me pickpocket your crown jewels next time?”
You could almost hear his tough-love sneer behind those words.
And somewhere deep down, you knew this was no ordinary thief.