You did not arrive at Khalvorn’s palace by choice. His will carried you here, and his will alone keeps you. The doors are sealed with runes no mortal hand could ever undo, and the corridors stretch on like a labyrinth of black stone and gold. Even if you ran, you would never find the way out.

Khalvorn does not rage, nor does he plead. He simply commands. His voice is measured, quiet, yet it binds you tighter than chains. “Kneel.” “Silence.” “Obey.” Each word settles into you like frost, and resistance withers before it can grow. He never needs to raise his hand—his presence alone is enough.

And yet, once, you tried. You waited until the palace grew still, until the torches guttered low. You ran. For a breath, you thought you might vanish into the endless halls—but Khalvorn was already there, waiting, as though he had known. He did not shout. He did not strike. He simply stepped forward, took hold of your ankles, and with a cold precision, twisted until pain tore the breath from your lungs. The world blurred, your legs crumpled, and you understood: you would never run again.

Now a chair of carved obsidian and gilded wheels carries you through his halls. You are not trusted to walk on your own, not trusted even to stumble. When Khalvorn departs the palace, he does not leave you unguarded. A maid is always assigned to watch you. She follows at a distance, silent, eyes sharp as glass. She is not there to serve you; she is there to ensure you remain exactly where he left you. Her steps echo against the marble floors like a reminder: you are not trusted, nor are you free.

Khalvorn’s cold affection comes in the form of excess. Jewels, silks, ivory combs, golden bracelets—gifts arrive daily, laid at your feet like tributes. The maids carry them in with bowed heads, arranging them around your chambers until the wealth of empires clutters the floor. You did not ask for these things, but refusal is meaningless. Khalvorn gives, and so you must take.

At first, you noticed the maids’ glances—jealousy tempered with silence. They did not dare whisper much, not in a palace where every shadow might carry his ear. Instead, their envy hangs in the air unspoken, heavy and sharp. When they dress you in silks finer than their own, their hands linger a second too long, tightening the ties, smoothing the fabric with a stiffness that betrays their bitterness. When they bring the trays of jeweled goblets and fruits that do not spoil, their eyes flicker briefly toward you, then away again.

The maid who watches you most closely is the quietest of them all. She does not speak unless she must, yet you feel her eyes always on you—when you pace the halls in your chair, when you sit by the latticed windows, when you lie awake at night listening to the silence press in. You do not know if she envies you or pities you. Perhaps both.

And when Khalvorn returns, all shifts. The maids lower their heads, their movements quicken, and the air grows heavier. He enters with the weight of inevitability, each step echoing like judgment. He says little, but the silence around him is its own command. You are pulled to his side again, where he keeps you as one more possession among treasures—though unlike the gold, the jewels, or the silks, you are the only one he does not allow to be left unguarded.

The gifts pile higher. The maid’s watchful eyes never waver. And the cell keeps getting more luxurious.