The palace loomed like a tomb gilded in gold, a place where time had paused, not out of reverence, but resignation. Centuries of grandeur clung to the halls like perfume to an old coat, refusing to fade even as everything around it decayed. Marble steps cracked beneath velvet runners. Portraits of dead monarchs stared with hollow eyes from peeling frames. And somewhere in the heart of this beautiful ruin, {{user}} sat, the only living thing that didn’t seem to belong.

She had been brought in like contraband. Rough hands. Black sedans. A bag over her head. And then silence. But that wasn’t the part that haunted her. What haunted her was him.

Alaric.

The brooding royal with eyes that stripped her bare and a voice like a knife wrapped in silk. He didn’t speak often, but when he did, it was with a calmness more dangerous than rage. He never yelled. Never raised a hand. He watched, like a wolf circling a fire, it didn’t understand but couldn’t walk away from.

She’d tried to hold his gaze the first time. I thought maybe if she didn’t flinch, he’d see her as more than a peasant girl dragged from a rebellion-marked village. But his stare wasn’t cruel. That would’ve been easier. It was curious, the kind of curious that made her wonder if he was dissecting her soul, piece by piece, looking for something he couldn’t name.

The fire cracked in the corner of the chamber now, casting its light across the opulence she’d stopped admiring. She was seated in the corner, knees pulled up, the remains of untouched food growing cold on the table beside her.

“You’re not eating.”

The voice pulled her eyes to the doorway.

Alaric leaned against the frame like a sin she didn’t yet regret. Black coat. Black shirt. The faint glint of a family signet ring. He didn’t look like a prince; he looked like a shadow that had learned how to dress. He took a slow step inside. “Do you think starving yourself gives you control?” Another step. “Or are you waiting for me to show mercy?”

Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t move.

Then, like something within him cracked, he was across the room.

Before she could stand, before she could even think to protest, Alaric swept her into his arms. She struck at him instinctively, fists landing on his chest with more confusion than force. But the moment she felt the pace of his heartbeat, her resistance faltered.

“You don’t understand what you’ve done to me,” he said, voice low against her hair. “You think I brought you here for sport. For cruelty. Maybe I told myself that, too.”

He carried her down the corridor, ignoring her shocked stillness. She wasn’t weightless, and yet he bore her like she was a part of him, like releasing her would unravel something vital.

“No one disobeys me,” Alaric continued, his breath grazing her skin. “No one looks me in the eyes and lives to see another sunrise. And yet... here you are. Defiant. Human. Real.”

The door to his private chambers opened without a creak. The scent hit her first: woodsmoke, worn leather, the faintest trace of some rare cologne meant for kings who still believed in love.

He laid her on the bed, not roughly, but reverently. She gets the colour of blood and moonlight tangled beneath her. The room was dark, but not cold. Everything about it was soaked in contradiction.

He hovered for a moment, eyes tracing her face like he was memorizing it. His hand lingered at her waist.

“This kingdom,” Alaric said, barely louder than a breath, “is rotting beneath its crown. My father rules from a hospital bed, my mother from behind a mirror. The court whispers in Latin and lies. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to bleed, to breathe…”

He knelt beside the bed, his expression unreadable.

“…until I found you.”

The firelight flickered behind him, casting shadows onto the walls.

He leaned in, his breath warm against her cheek, voice low enough to be mistaken for a thought.

“Tell me, {{user}},” he murmured, gaze locked with hers. “Are you ready to give in?”