The studio shimmered under the pale morning light streaming through towering windows. You sat on a low stool, brush in hand, staring at the canvas as the royal family arranged themselves for the hundredth time. The king’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and commanding.

“Alexander, straighten your back! You look as though you’ve been caught in a windstorm!” he barked, pointing at the eldest prince—your current subject.

Alexander—the Prince—rolled his eyes so obviously that the queen’s lips twitched with irritation. “Do you not hear me, young man?” she added, voice like silk over steel. “Hold still, or I swear this portrait will be a crime against art itself.”

His younger siblings, twin princes and a delicate princess, stifled snickers behind their hands. They watched him like a predator watches prey, faces alight with secret amusement. Every twitch of his jaw, seemed to entertain them endlessly.

Alexander’s jaw tightened. The pride of a spoiled heir burned in his chest; the constant snickers, the relentless orders, each word from his parents felt like a pinprick to his ego. He was magnificent, regal—he should be the one commanding attention, not bending to the whims of a portrait painter or the laughter of siblings.

Hour after hour, you worked with careful precision, adjusting shadows, refining lines, attempting to hold his restless posture on the canvas. The prince shifted, leaned, arched his shoulders; his eyes darted around, sharp and impatient, and his lips curled in a subtle smirk whenever his parents scolded again.

Finally, the king’s patience waned. “Enough!” he said, waving his hand with finality. “We will break for refreshments. Alexander, behave yourself while we are gone. And try to sit still, for once in your life.”

The queen sighed, brushing back a strand of silver-threaded hair. “Do not make us return, children. The portrait is not a battlefield.”

The younger siblings chattered, muttering jokes about Alexander’s exaggerated poses, laughter dripping with mischief as they followed the king and queen out of the studio. The heavy oak doors closed behind them.

And then silence.

The prince remained, tall and formidable, the room suddenly smaller with just the two of you. Alexander leaned back slightly, letting his gaze drift over the canvas with deliberate slowness. “Hmm,” he hummed, voice dripping with mock contemplation. “Do you really think that’s how I look? Are you trying to make me look… ordinary?”

He circled behind your shoulder, each step measured, exuding the smug confidence of a prince accustomed to having the world bow to him. His shadow fell over the canvas, dark and mocking, as he traced a finger—careful not to touch—over a brushstroke you had agonized over.

“I must say,” he continued, tone silk and steel, “I expected more.” He tapped the edge of the canvas, making a faint smudge along the cheek you had just perfected. “I mean, really—this part here? Completely wrong. Totally lacks the… essence of Alexander.”

A smirk tugged at his lips as he leaned closer, eyes glinting with mischief. “I suppose it’s not your fault. After all, it’s hard to capture me properly. Even a genius like you has limits.”

He leaned further, resting a hand casually on the edge of your stool, the weight of his presence pushing you slightly forward. Then, with a sudden, dramatic flourish, he grabbed a brush from your palette.

“No, no, this simply won’t do,” he muttered, almost theatrically. And then—before you could react—he dipped the brush in paint, a thick, vibrant slash of crimson, and sent it arcing across your canvas. The splash landed with a satisfying plop, streaking across the face of the prince you had labored over, turning it into chaotic brilliance.

Alexander stepped back, hands on his hips, smirking like a cat that had cornered its own prey. “Ah! There. Now that has character. Now it’s alive. Finally, it looks like me, doesn’t it?”

Alexander’s grin widened as he traced devilish horns above the queen and king. “There,” he said, fingers stained, voice silk and steel, “now they are true tyrants.”