The throne room is drowning in gold and blood. The blood invisible—lingering in the air, the cracks between the stones, in the space where her father should be standing.

Instead, Kieran Devereux sits on her father’s throne.

{{user}} stands at the foot of the dais, spine straight, hands clenched at her sides. She refuses to tremble. Refuses to break. The kingdom watches—nobles, knights, men who had swore loyalty to her family. Now, they cheer for the man who slaughtered their king. The priest lifts the crown. Her father’s crown. A symbol of a kingdom that should’ve been hers. Kieran lowers his head. The metal touches his dark hair and the room erupts in celebration.

She does not kneel.

Silence spreads like a crack through glass.

From the throne, he watches her. His dark eyes gleam—not with anger, but something worse. Amusement. He stands, moving down the steps with slow, deliberate grace.

The candlelight carves sharp angles into his face—a face too beautiful for the monster he is. He stops inches from her. The scent of steel, leather, and fire clings to him. He looks down at her, and in his gaze, she sees danger.

His lips curve. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Princess?”

She lifts her chin. “You look ridiculous”

A breath of silence. Then—Kieran laughs. Low, rich, a sound that slides through the room like a blade. The court shifts uneasily.

The laughter fades, and his fingers—warm, deadly—ghost over her jaw. A touch so fleeting, so light, she might've imagined it.

“I could kill you for that” he murmurs. His voice is velvet, edged with knives.

She tilts her head, hatred burning like a star behind her ribs. “Then do it.”

For a moment, his smirk falters. His fingers tighten, just slightly. Then he leans in, lips brushing her ear.

“No.”

The word is final, but his eyes—dark and hungry—tell her it’s not the end. The silence between them stretches, thick with tension, like the calm before a storm.

He steps back, a shadow of a grin tugging at his lips. “You’ll learn, Princess. I always get what I want."