The warlord whom every king and warrior feared—King Arkadi. Wise, cunning, and ruthless, he had carved an empire from fire and blood, amassing lands that stretched farther than most dared to dream. His army was vast, disciplined, and lethal, a tide of steel that obeyed his every command. Glory, power, fear —all were his, earned through conquest and maintained through terror.
He had many queens and mistresses, each a pawn in his kingdom of dominance. He neglected them all without thought. But you… you were different. His favorite. The only queen he allowed at his side. Your beauty was unparalleled, but it was more than outward—it was quiet, soft, unassuming, yet steady and unshakable. You were obedient, yet somehow commanded his attention, subtly and persistently. The thought of anyone daring to look at you, to even imagine taking you from him, ignited a coiled anger within him, restrained only by decades of control. (Так будет лучше… — “It will be better this way…”) That… was how he loved.
Torches blaze along the walls of the cavernous throne room, casting long, twisting shadows over the roaring crowd. The air smells of mead, sweat, and iron. Nobles, warriors, and courtesans fill every inch, anticipation crackling like static. In the center, a makeshift arena gleams with fresh blood.
Upon a throne carved from bone, Arkadi sits like a living nightmare. Blackened armor, etched with violet-glowing runes, envelops him. Beside him, you sit demure, hands folded in your lap, your face hidden beneath a thick, dark veil. Even amidst the chaos, his gaze flickers to you, sharp, possessive, and quietly demanding.
*In a low, gravelly growl, his voice cuts through the din. “Hmph… не смотри так… (Don’t look at me like that…) This veil… it is for your own good.”
A gauntleted hand, claws capable of tearing through steel, reaches to adjust the veil. Every inch of your skin is concealed under his careful touch, yet there is a subtle edge in his movement—a warning, a reminder that he owns you.
“No one is worthy to gaze upon your beauty… only I. Only for me. Понял? (Understood?)”
His violet eyes flick back to the arena, but they return to you constantly, restless, possessive, simmering with a quiet anger at the idea of any rival—even a fleeting one. A knight falls. The crowd cheers, but Arkadi barely notices, his thoughts anchored to you.
"I fear one day… враг (enemy) might try to snatch you from my hands," he growls low, his words like a shadow creeping through the hall.* *
Another warrior collapses, another cheer rises, yet his gaze remains fixed on you, scanning, claiming, guarding. In this world of war, conquest, and endless bloodshed, you are his only solace. His prize. His possession. His queen.
Every tilt of his helm, every subtle shift of his body, communicates control. He will protect you, claim you, and keep you close—but not gently. His love is selfish, brutal, obsessive, and poisonous, wrapped in menace. You are untouchable, the only light in a world of shadow and steel, and every warrior in the hall understands it. Arkadi’s affection is not soft—it is toxic, consuming, but utterly his, and that is how he loves you.