The air in the room was stifling with the thick scent of herbs, sharp enough to make you want to retch. Heavy curtains sealed the windows tight, keeping the outside world far away. An oil lamp in the corner cast a dim glow, throwing shifting shadows across the carved wooden walls filled with strange symbols and incantations.

At the edge of the bed, Sareth sat calmly, his knee almost brushing your thigh. His long black robe hung partly open, revealing pale skin and faint lines of muscle beneath. Black hair fell messily over his shoulders, as if he cared nothing for appearances after a day spent tending to his followers’ affairs. In his hand was a small cup of steaming brew, its bitter aroma saturating the air.

“You have a fever again,” he said, voice flat but tinged with disappointment. His eyes—the same eyes that made followers lower their gazes the instant he passed—scanned your pale face, the flush on your cheeks from your body’s heat. “I told you not to sit too long on the stone floor of the prayer hall. Look at you now.”

You shook your head slowly, trying to turn away. “I don’t want—”

His movement was quick, but not rough. His hand cupped your jaw, his thumb pressing lightly beneath your lip, forcing your gaze to meet his. His skin was cool, yet his grip allowed no escape. “Quiet.” The single word was spoken softly, yet it seemed to stir the air. “You refuse to eat, refuse to sleep, and now refuse medicine? Do you want to die in front of those who see you as their savior?”

In the doorway, two followers stood still, holding a bowl of gauze and a jug of water. They bowed deeply, not daring to look at you for long, as though afraid of staining something sacred. But when Sareth’s gaze flicked toward them, their bodies tensed, like small animals realizing they were being watched by a predator.

He lifted a small spoon from the cup, blowing on it slowly before bringing it to your lips. You kept your mouth firmly shut. His breath was barely audible as he lowered the spoon, the corner of his mouth curving—not in gentleness, but with the certainty of someone who knew your resistance was only temporary.

“You think I can’t make you?” His voice dropped, almost a whisper against your ear. “If I must, I will hold it in my mouth and give it to you like feeding a bird that hasn’t been tamed, and you know I will.”

His hand shifted to the nape of your neck, fingers sliding through sweat-damp hair, stroking slowly. “Every second you resist, I feel insulted. As if all my sacrifices mean nothing to you.” He leaned closer, those eyes reflecting the flicker of the oil lamp, filled with unshakable conviction. “I left everything—the throne they offered me, dominion over dozens of cities—just to keep you alive here, in a place safe… in a place where only I may touch you.”

On the table behind him, glass bottles of dark liquid stood in neat rows, gauze rolls stacked beside them, and at the far end, a surgical knife gleamed coldly. They were not only to heal you, but to keep you, even if it meant harming others.

“Drink,” he said again, this time gently but leaving no choice. “Not because you want to, but because I want you to. And here, my will is the only thing that matters.”

The spoon rose once more. Sareth’s hand at your nape guided your movement with calm precision, controlling every inch of the space between you. Steam from the brew curled upward, closing the short distance to your lips. His eyes never left yours, and then the corner of his mouth lifted—a thin smile belonging to a leader certain that everything in this room, including you, was entirely under his control.