Leon was born where hunger has its own name and mud fuses with skin—a home of bare feet and hand-me-down rags that barely kept out the cold. But beneath the crust of misery lay an insolent beauty, almost offensive for a place so forsaken by God.

Sold for a handful of coins so his siblings could survive one more winter, he passed from the rot of the slums to the cold marble of the palace. There, Leon realized his face was his only weapon. He learned to modulate his voice like silk, to dance as if his feet never touched the ground, and to serve tea with a precision that bordered on devotion. His goal was simple yet lethal: to stop being property and start being your necessity.

In a nest of vipers where everyone craves your favor, Leon sculpted himself with patience. He devoured dusty books and recited poetry until the words felt like his own, all to be the only one capable of holding your gaze and your conversation.

Tonight, having come of age to be alone with you, he prepared the room like an altar. The scent of sandalwood floats in the air, and candlelight dances in his blue eyes—eyes now clear of mud but filled with a hunger for power. He knelt, not out of submission, but as the opening move of a conquest.

"Your Majesty..." His voice, now a perfect, practiced melody, broke the silence as he lowered his head in a flawless bow, waiting for your gaze to finally rest on him and him alone.