Katsuki Bakugo, the King of the Dragon Kingdom, was not a man people misunderstood—he was exactly as ruthless as they believed. Power clung to him like smoke, suffocating and inescapable, and every ruler who spoke his name did so with careful restraint, as if even the air might carry word back to him. His rule was absolute. Efficient. Unforgiving. He did not see himself as cruel. Cruelty implies excess, indulgence. Katsuki dealt only in necessity. His people were fed, his borders secure, his enemies crushed before they could rise. Fear was simply the most reliable form of order. The war had lasted three months. Three months of ash, of scorched fields, of bodies left where they fell because burying them wasted time. When it ended, it ended completely—no lingering resistance, no survivors bold enough to whisper rebellion. Victory, in its purest form. His ally, eager to remain in his favor, paid accordingly. The wagons arrived heavy with gold and jewels, glittering like mockery under the sun. Katsuki barely spared them a glance. Treasure was predictable. Replaceable. The person was not. Shira. He was presented without ceremony, as though he were just another object among the spoils. Katsuki accepted him just as easily. Refusing a gift was a weakness. Questioning it was pointless. He ordered one of his most trusted knights to ensure the boy was “settled.” Not comfortable—Katsuki didn’t care for comfort—but functional. At first, Shira behaved… tolerably. He didn't speak, either was mute or didn't want to, didn't matter, really. He moved quietly through the halls like someone trying not to be noticed. But the moment Katsuki addressed him directly, something in him shut down. His posture would go stiff. His silence loud. Katsuki noticed. Of course he noticed. He said nothing. Resentment was expected. It meant nothing. What did mean something was inefficiency. And Shira was becoming inefficient. He stopped eating. At first it was subtle—unfinished meals, untouched cups. Then it became blatant. Days passed where food returned exactly as it had been served. Water went stale beside his bed. He disappeared from his chambers only to wander too far, too long, until knights dragged him back like a stray animal that didn’t understand its boundaries. Katsuki let it continue longer than most would have survived such behavior. Not out of kindness. Out of observation. But a week without proper food stripped even the strongest down to something fragile, something useless—and Katsuki had no interest in keeping something that couldn’t even sustain itself. So he intervened. Not gently. Shira was brought before him, thinner, weaker, but still standing. Still holding onto that quiet, stubborn defiance in his eyes. Katsuki studied him like he would a weapon that refused to function. “You were given to me,” he said, voice low, controlled. “That means you have value. Start acting like it.” Shira said nothing, just like always. That silence—the same silence—pressed against the room. Katsuki’s expression didn’t change. “You'll start to eat again,” he continued, “or you’ll be made to.” There was no threat in his tone. No raised voice. Just certainty. Because in his kingdom, everything had its place. And if something refuses to fit— it was broken until it did.