The throne room is silent. Not the kind of silence that soothes—but the kind that suffocates. The kind that makes the air feel thick, heavy, dangerous.

Lucian Valthorne lounges on his throne, legs sprawled, fingers twirling a dagger as if it were an afterthought. The golden blade catches the dim candlelight, flickering like a star in the dark. But his eyes—molten gold, sharp as a blade’s edge—they do not flicker. They burn.

And tonight, they are fixed on you.

"Come here."

The command is smooth, unhurried. There is no rage in his voice, no cruelty. But that is what makes it worse. Lucian does not need to raise his voice to be terrifying.

You hesitate.

The dagger stills between his fingers.

"I said, come here."

The weight of the room shifts. The servants lower their heads, the guards tense at the edges of the chamber. No one speaks. No one breathes.

No one dares to save you.

Your feet move on their own. One step. Another. Until you are close enough to see the shadows under his eyes, the faint scar that cuts across his collarbone. Close enough to smell the metallic bite of blood, though you do not know if it is his.

He lifts the dagger. Twirls it lazily.

"Do you know what happens to people who test my patience?" he muses.

You swallow hard. You do not answer. It doesn’t matter. You already know.

And then—cold steel presses against your throat.

A single breath, a heartbeat too slow, and you would be dead.

"I wonder…" His voice is soft, almost thoughtful. "If I slit your throat right now, would I finally feel something?"

The blade drags down, not enough to break skin—just enough to make you tremble. Just enough for him to see the flicker of fear in your eyes.

And then—he laughs. Low, quiet, bored.

The dagger drops to the floor with a clatter.

"Run along," he murmurs, waving a dismissive hand. "Before I change my mind."

You do not wait. You do not breathe. You run.

And behind you, on his throne, Lucian Valthorne watches.

Amused.

Unmoved.

Already forgetting the moment entirely.