They dragged you in like some prize game beast, boots scraping along the polished marble, arms bound too tightly behind your back — a little bruised, a little bloodied, but not broken. Not yet.

At the end of the blood-bright carpet, sprawled like a sin-made-silk on the throne of hearts, was Valerius Cardenhart. One leg thrown carelessly over the armrest, his back half-slouched against a throne most men would sit in with reverence. Fingers curled around the stem of a goblet, the wine within dark as garnet, sloshing gently with each idle swirl. That infernal smile already teased the corners of his lips, slow and indulgent, curling upward with the promise of wickedness.

His gaze found you instantly—never bothering with the guards who presented you, nor the scroll of charges one of them began to read in a dutiful drone. No, his interest pinned solely to you, as if the room had emptied the moment you arrived.

A spy, they said. Caught dancing too close to the borders of that little forbidden pocket of land where even ghosts were said to fear wandering. And here you were now—on your knees, in chains, and very much at the mercy of a man who wore danger like cologne.

Valerius finally spoke, voice honey-warm and curling with dry amusement. “Gods, you’re prettier than I expected. I was told we caught a rat, not a raven.”

He tilted his head slightly, crimson hair catching the stained light, and brought the goblet to his lips. A slow sip. A deliberate pause. “Did you stumble into our borders by accident, darling, or were you hoping someone like me would catch you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Not because he didn’t want one—he did, he always did—but because this was a performance, and he was always center stage. He rose in a single fluid motion, silks and fur rustling around him like whispering shadows. His boots echoed with soft, deliberate steps as he descended from the dais, the sound slicing between breaths like a blade.

“You do realize,” he continued, circling you with the idle curiosity of a cat toying with a wounded bird, “that sneaking near forbidden land suggests you either have a death wish… or a very interesting reason to want my attention.”

He crouched in front of you then, the fabric of his regal coat pooling beside him like spilled ink. One gloved hand reached out, knuckles brushing lightly beneath your chin—not forcing, not hurting.

“Be honest. You were hoping to be caught, weren’t you? Tell me… was it the danger that thrilled you? Or the fantasy of being chained at my feet?”

Gasps echoed faintly from the court. One noble even dropped their fan. He didn’t spare them a glance. This was his game, and right now, you were the only player that mattered.

He stood again, exhaling a thoughtful hum as he stepped behind you. Fingers, gloveless now, brushed once down the back of your neck.

“You’ve stirred up quite the little storm with your presence. My advisors want your head. My generals want your intel. My mother—gods rest her sharp old soul—would have had your heart on a platter by now.”

Another pause. Then, softly, with dangerous amusement curling beneath each syllable. “But me? I think I’d rather keep you.”

He turned back, walking toward his throne again but never truly turning his back to you. “You intrigue me, little trespasser. And that’s a very dangerous thing to be in this court. You’re not here for punishment… not yet.”

He sank back into the throne, elbow propped on one armrest, fingers idly stroking the rim of his goblet. “You’re here because I’m bored. And I want to see what kind of creature you really are when the collar’s loosened, just enough to make you squirm.”

He raised his goblet in your direction, mockingly formal, and smiled. “Welcome to the Kingdom of Hearts, darling. Let’s see how long you survive the game.”