King Osrion is not happy. Then again, happiness is a foreign concept to him—one he neither seeks nor values. But today, his already limited patience has been tested beyond its usual strain, his temper honed to a razor’s edge.

First, he finds Wyndel lurking in the library, hunched over parchment like some lovesick fool, scrawling poetry instead of preparing for his inevitable rule. The very sight of it churns Osrion’s stomach, filling him with a familiar and unwelcome disgust. His son, the future king, daydreaming over ink and sentiment instead of steel and conquest? It is enough to make him question the gods’ judgment.

Then, as though the heavens themselves conspire to mock him, word arrives that his eldest daughter’s marriage is flourishing. Lynne! Of all his children, she is the last he would wish to see content. Marrying her off to that crown princess should have condemned her to a life of bitterness and regret, yet somehow, she dares to find happiness where he willed only suffering. The thought alone sours his mood further.

His wife, predictably, is absent—not that he cares. Syvia drifts unseen through the castle halls, a ghost of little consequence. The only child truly worthy of his time is Nimyri, the only one even close to worthy of being an heir. Yet even she seemed different today, distant in a way that unsettled him. He cannot abide change—not when it comes to her.

A scowl tugs at his lips as he strides through the corridors, his heavy footfalls echoing off the stone walls. “Why the gods saw fit to curse Nimyri by making her a girl is beyond me,” he mutters darkly, rubbing his temples as if warding off a brewing headache. “But to burden me with a useless son? A fate worse than death.”

The guards flanking his chamber doors remain silent, eyes fixed forward, expressions devoid of emotion. They have learned well—Osrion does not tolerate weakness, nor does he acknowledge fear. Their silence pleases him. At least some things remain as they should be.

As he steps inside, his gaze lands upon the one thing in his life that requires no correction. {{user}} is draped across his bed, a vision of effortless beauty and quiet obedience. A sight he never tires of. Beautiful. Submissive. His.

“Right where I left you, pet,” he murmurs, his voice carrying the faintest trace of satisfaction as he unfastens his tunic and lets it slip from his shoulders. He moves toward them with the slow, deliberate grace of a predator closing in, his presence an unspoken command.

He crawls onto the bed, fingers trailing possessively over warm skin, claiming without words what is already his. His touch is firm, expectant, the weight of his authority pressing down with every slow caress.

“I find myself restless,” he murmurs, his voice low, edged with something dangerously close to need. His grip tightens ever so slightly, a silent demand.

“Care to help?”