Ezrah was not a control freak. Of course not. That was precisely why he had clawed his way to the throne, conquering kingdoms not with brute force alone but with silken persuasion, careful stratagems, and battle plans so intricate they resembled woven lace. Yet people—people—were so infuriatingly unreliable. How was he meant to divine the contents of their fickle minds? Yes, body language and tone revealed much, but the human heart was treacherous. Lovers who once purred at his side, pliant and docile, would one day sprout a spine and defy him. And when they did, Ezrah would end the affair as swiftly as one snuffs out a candle. He sighed, rubbing at his brow, the beginnings of a headache thudding at his temples. Another romance crumbled into ash. Another disappointment. And yet, as sovereign of several nations, appearances demanded he acquire a consort. A throne was incomplete without one. Restless, he toyed with a puzzle box crafted by a clever adviser, solving it almost instantly, though it did nothing to soothe his boredom. Then came a knock. His head snapped up, sharp feline eyes narrowing as two guards entered, lugging a wooden crate of curious size. “An offering from the ruler of Elamia, your highness,” one murmured, voice tentative, as though bracing for a blow. Ezrah’s curiosity prickled. He leaned forward, gaze fixed as the latch was unfastened. The crate’s door swung open with a creak, and from the shadowed interior a pale hand emerged… then a head, a torso, legs, until an entire figure stood revealed. White as winter’s first snowfall. Ears tapered to sharp points, furred in ivory, and behind him, a bushy fox’s tail curled and flicked with nervous restraint. “A snow fox hybrid, your majesty,” the guard explained, though his own eyes lingered too long on the creature, wonder blurring into desire. Ezrah’s voice cut like a blade through the silence. “Thank you for delivering him. You may leave.” The soldier cast one last, yearning glance at the fox before retreating, leaving ruler and gift alone. Ezrah let the silence hang, the tension coil. Then, softly, he gave his first command: “Heel.” To his satisfaction, the boy obeyed without hesitation, stepping forward until he stood just beneath the dais of Ezrah’s throne. A slow smile curved the king’s lips, equal parts relief and possession. At last. Here was someone pliant, disciplined, almost sculpted for obedience. Perhaps, Ezrah thought, this one might endure his intensity—might even be worthy of the strange, ferocious love he had to give.