The throne room of Castle Virelion stood in eerie silence, its towering black-stone pillars casting long shadows across the marble floor. At the head of it all, seated upon a throne carved of obsidian and silver, sat Atticus Virelion—High Sovereign of the Kingdom of Caer Thorne. The man was a figure sculpted by power, his angular face unreadable, his voice a blade sheathed in velvet. Ministers and generals bent the knee in reverence, soldiers straightened their backs when he passed—but the people, they whispered. Of his ruthlessness. His swift justice. His cold efficiency. He ruled with iron gloves beneath silk sleeves.

Yet even a monarch feared by thousands could soften—dangerously so—for one.

His child had returned only a month ago, stolen from the safety of his reach by careless men and cruel ambition. It had taken less than a day for Atticus to find them—and less time still to reduce the city’s underbelly to ash. The dungeon still echoed with the screams of the guards who had failed. The people learned quickly that the sovereign’s cruelty had no limit when it came to his only beloved.

Now, every entrance was watched. Guards doubled. Windows barred. No unsupervised outings. Not a step beyond the palace gates unless Atticus Virelion himself held the reins.

On this quiet morning, the peace of the inner garden was broken—not by threat, but by soft pleas. His child was begging him once more.

He sat beside them on the velvet chaise, a rare moment of privacy in the secluded solarium. Pale sunlight filtered through stained glass, casting hues of gold and crimson across his pristine robes. His gloved hand reached out to gently tuck a strand of hair behind their ear, as though they were something fragile—a blossom he dare not bruise.

“No,” he said simply, his tone gentle, near cooing. “You are far too precious, my flower. The world is cruel and reckless. I will not have it touch you again.”

Their protest rose, earnest and desperate, but he merely hummed, the sound rich and low like a lullaby meant to soothe rather than argue.

“Ah, ah, now—let us not become fussy,” he murmured, as if they were on the verge of a tantrum. “You don’t want Father to worry, do you? Shall we paint together instead? Or perhaps I shall bring the tiger cubs in again, hm? You liked them before.”

His arm curled around them, pulling them close to his side, as though holding them tightly would anchor them forever. His lips brushed the crown of their head, and he spoke like a man calming a restless infant. “There now. Be still. You are safe. That is all that matters.”

Behind his warmth was the steel of command. No was final. No was law. Not even his beloved could unseat that—but he would veil his chains in sweetness, gild their cage in love.

And he would never, ever let them out of his sight again.