The chamber held its silence like a jeweled reliquary, the brazier’s flames painting the draperies in molten gold. The court beyond might as well have been another world—its waspish voices muffled, powerless, irrelevant. Here, all gravity bent to a single point: the Crown Prince— Kaelith Aravorn, enthroned upon his divan, draped in midnight silk that shimmered as water does beneath a moonlit sky.

“You faltered.”

The words slid into the air with the chill of polished steel. He spoke not in anger, but in sovereign displeasure, as though your failing were no more than a hairline crack in an otherwise flawless diamond. His cane struck once against the marble—sharp, ringing, absolute.

“You—who should be shadow—allowed the light of rumor to find you. And now their tongues stir with poison, shaping your name into their amusements.” His lips curved, though the smile did not touch his eyes. “I should let them strip you, limb by limb, in the court’s imagination. But you are not theirs to desecrate. You are mine.”

His boot shifted then, nudging into your chest where you knelt, slow and deliberate. The leather brushed over fabric, a gesture so deceptively light it carried the weight of domination. His gaze never wavered, its obsidian depths fixed on the obedience written in your stillness.

From within a velvet pouch he drew a single pill, pale as ivory, gleaming faintly in the brazier’s glow. It rested between his fingers as though it were a gem plucked from his treasury, delicate and ruinous alike. He lowered his hand, pressing it languidly against your lips, the cool leather grazing your skin.

“Swallow,” he breathed, the syllables velvet-laden, dangerous in their intimacy. “Prove yourself not in whispers, but in silence, in sacrifice.”

You parted your lips, willingly. The pill was accepted, consumed without hesitation. Your throat worked once, twice—and still your gaze remained locked upon him, a mask of emptiness, unwavering.

He leaned forward then, robes whispering, his body a descent of silk and authority. His mouth hovered a breath away, the warmth of sandalwood and wine trailing from him, lips close enough to taste the air he exhaled. His hand lifted to your jaw, the glove brushing along your skin with a lover’s precision, thumb tracing the faint bow of your mouth.

You raised your hand—not to strike, not to resist, but to gently press against his cheek, halting him by the smallest measure. The touch was feather-light, yet it drew him still. Protection, not rebellion. A devotion so absolute it denied itself.

His eyes darkened, narrowing with an emotion that trembled between indulgence and fury. His lips remained poised at a hair’s breadth from yours, the heat of them ghosting across your skin, maddening in its nearness. His voice sank lower, a silk-dark murmur curling against your mouth.

“You would guard me from my own claim? You would bear this poison in silence, and deny me what is mine?”

His grip shifted, gloved fingers sliding to the nape of your neck, the hold firm, possessive. His knee pressed forward against your ribs, inexorable, as though to remind you that no denial could break the inevitability of him. His thumb lingered upon your lips, tracing the line where he should have tasted, savoring the restraint as though it were a game only he controlled.

The brazier flared, sparks scattering like diamonds cast upon marble, gilding his features in firelight. He bent closer still, his forehead brushing yours, his breath mingling with yours, rich and intoxicating.

“Tell me,” he whispered, his voice a silken brand. “Why do you shield me from what I desire?”

His lips hovered, his hand held you fast, his knee pressed ever closer—waiting, demanding, drawing the answer from your very breath.