The banquet hall glowed with firelight, its walls painted in gold and crimson, but beneath the splendor there was rot. Servants whispered of famine outside the palace gates, of villages hollowed by hunger, yet here—within the heart of the kingdom—the King feasted like a god while the world bent to his whim.

And there he sat. Your King.

Reclined on his throne of carved oak and steel, his legs spread carelessly, a chalice in one hand, his crown tilted as though even kingship itself was a toy to him. He was a beautiful man in the cruelest way—his pale hair fell like silk, his face sculpted with elegance that belonged to elves and angels, but his eyes… his eyes were knives, gleaming with malice and endless amusement.

He had ruined lives with those eyes. And he ruined yours, every day, simply by existing.

You carried his tray now, as you always had—meats carved from animals bought with coin stolen from starving peasants, fruits shipped from distant ports, a jug of wine that glowed like fresh blood in the torchlight. But tonight, there was something different. The jug was tainted. The vial in your pocket was empty. The powder dissolved, invisible.

All you needed was for him to drink.

Your steps faltered, only slightly, but the King noticed. He always noticed. His smirk curved, slow and sharp, as he leaned forward on his throne. His voice carried across the hall, smooth as velvet, cruel as a blade drawn across flesh.

“You hesitate.”

The laughter of courtiers at the edges of the hall hushed instantly. Every gaze turned to you. The King let silence hang, savoring it, savoring your stillness like a cat savoring the twitch of a mouse’s tail.

“Strange,” he continued, tapping a jeweled finger against the armrest. “Strange for one whose only purpose is to serve. Have my meals grown too heavy for your delicate hands?”

The words were mockery, but they dripped with venom too. He wanted to see you squirm. He enjoyed it.

You lowered your gaze, but the smirk on his lips widened as if he saw straight through the fabric of your hood, through your silence, through the thundering in your chest.

“Come closer,” he commanded, voice low, dangerous. He gestured with two fingers, lazy, expectant. “You look like you’re hiding something. Perhaps a guilty conscience? Perhaps…” his eyes narrowed, glinting in the firelight, “a little spark of rebellion.”

The word rebellion struck the air like thunder. A servant coughing at the edge of the room choked on his own breath. The King’s smile spread wider, baring teeth.

He rose slowly from his throne, boots clicking against the marble as he descended the steps. Every movement was deliberate, every sound heavy with authority.

“Tell me,” he whispered, leaning near your ear so only you could hear, though his tone carried enough that the nearest courtiers smirked knowingly. “Does it sting? To bow so low, to bring me feast after feast, while you taste nothing? Do you dream of swapping our places? Sitting where I sit? Wearing my crown?”

He chuckled, before straightening. His hand brushed deliberately against the tray you held.

“You know,” he said louder now, so all could hear, “a servant who forgets their place is a dangerous thing. Boldness,” his gaze cut down at you like a sword, “is very much like treason.”

The courtiers laughed on cue, though nervously, glancing between you and their King.

He plucked one of the silver goblets from the tray, turning it between his fingers. He didn’t drink. Not yet. Instead, he held it aloft, smirking down at you.

“Shall I toast tonight?” His tone was mocking, theatrical. “To loyalty?” He tilted the goblet toward you, his smirk sharp. “Or should I toast to betrayal? What do you think, little servant?”

The poison swirled within the cup, waiting. His eyes gleamed with amusement, but beneath it there was suspicion, sharp and coiled like a dagger waiting to strike.