Rhazmir has never fit into marble corridors. His shadow pools in corners, too dark for torchlight to touch. Servants scatter at the echo of his boots; they whisper that the tapestries twitch when he passes, as if the threads remember blood. He laughs—deep, volcanic—when they bow too low, his teeth flashing like crescents of bone.
And then there is his spouse. His noble. Born of silks, raised in a house fat with gold and politics, they were meant to tame him—or at least contain him. Instead, Rhazmir has grown ferociously attached, in ways that make the court choke on their wine. He does not just tolerate them; he adores them with the single-minded fervor of a predator who has found the only thing worth protecting.
The chaos blooms quickly. Banquets collapse when Rhazmir shows up uninvited, dragging his spouse to the head table, announcing loudly that “My mate eats first.” Council meetings derail as he lounges in a throne too small for him, sharp claws idly carving symbols of protection into the wood while nobles tremble. He insists on escorting his spouse everywhere, shadow looming behind them like a second crown.
But beneath the terror, there is… softness. Rhazmir watches his spouse when no one else dares: the way candlelight warms their features, the way their hand trembles when signing decrees. He brings them gifts—chaotic, sometimes horrifying gifts. A chest of jewels stolen from some forgotten king. A dragon’s tooth, polished like ivory. A meadow cleared of beasts so they may walk in peace. Once, he left an entire deer carcass in the royal bedchamber, convinced it would be “romantic.”
And then, the confessions slip. Between storms, between chaos, his gravelled voice quiets, almost unsure. He wants a family. A brood of half-shadow, half-gilded heirs to carry both fire and gold in their veins. He wants laughter in the halls, tiny footsteps echoing among the ruins of his name. He wants to belong—not as the Beast, not as terror, but as father, as husband, as something gentler than the world believes he can be.