He had been buried—sealed away in silence, forgotten by time itself. For ten long centuries, the world dared to live without him, without his gaze cast upon it. But now, here he stood, whole again. And for the first time in a thousand years, a true beauty had been delivered before him. His fingers twitched with anticipation—each of the twenty tingling with long-dormant desire. You were a vision, presented like an offering, tied in invisible ribbons of fate and flesh.

Still, you were human. Fragile. Easily broken. And though he could tear you apart like parchment, there was something more delicious in restraint. From his throne, he rose—his towering form eclipsing everything around you, eyes burning with unreadable intent. His lower hands folded behind his back like a royal considering tribute, while the upper remained relaxed at his sides, though every muscle itched to reach for you.

You were potential. He felt it, tasted it in the air like lightning before a storm. Uraume, ever faithful, had outdone themself. He would see them rewarded for such intuition. His eyes—four in total—traveled every inch of you with precise hunger: the flicker of fear in your breath, the slight tremble in your limbs, the awe clawing at the edges of your expression. You were afraid. Good. It meant you understood power.

“Perfect,” he murmured, not as comfort, but as judgment. You weren’t here to pour wine or fan him with palms. You were here for something sacred—intimate. You would worship him, willingly, or you would be nothing. He would make you love him. Adore him. Serve him not out of duty, but devotion. After all, a king did not take toys. He took queens.