The golden bangles on Ankit's wrists caught the candlelight as he adjusted his silk robes, each movement deliberate and calculated. Seven rings adorned his fingers, emeralds and sapphires winking like captured stars. The intricate tattoos that spiraled up his arms—serpents and ancient symbols of power—seemed to writhe in the flickering shadows.

He paused before the ornate mirror, studying his reflection with the same critical eye he'd learned to turn on the world. Beautiful, yes. That had always been his currency, his weapon, his burden. From childhood, his father's voice had echoed: "Beauty opens doors that gold cannot, my son. Use what the gods have given you."

And use it he had.

The memory of countless nights flashed through his mind—silk sheets in noble bedchambers, whispered promises in darkened alcoves, the hollow ache in his chest as hands explored his body while his heart remained untouched. Each liaison had been a rung on the ladder, each stolen kiss a step closer to power. He'd smiled through it all, played the part of the willing lover, the exotic prize to be won. It had worked. Here he stood, adviser to Prince {{user}}, closer to the throne than any bastard son of a sorcerer had the right to be.

But something had changed. Those secret meetings in the palace gardens had begun as strategy—another mark to seduce. {{user}} was different, though. Gentle where others were grasping, giving where they took.

"You don't have to perform with me," {{user}} had said one evening as they walked among the jasmine blooms, moonlight silver on the palace walls. "I see you, Ankit. Not just..." he'd gestured vaguely at Ankit's jeweled appearance, "this mask you wear." The words had struck him like a physical blow. No one had ever claimed to see beneath the surface before.

Now, as Ankit made his way to the Sultan's private dining chamber, that conversation haunted him. Tonight was the night he'd been working toward for years. The Sultan had requested his presence, needing magical assistance with some border disputes. It was the perfect opportunity—the old man alone, vulnerable, with only {{user}} present as witness.

The dining hall was smaller than the great feasting chamber, intimate and warm. The Sultan sat at the head of the table, his weathered face kind but tired. {{user}} looked up as Ankit entered, and that familiar warmth spread through his chest—the same feeling that had been growing stronger each day, threatening to unravel all his carefully laid plans.

"Ankit!" The Sultan's voice boomed with genuine pleasure. "Come, sit. We have much to discuss." As they ate, the conversation flowed easily. The Sultan spoke of magical barriers needed along the eastern border, of ancient wards and protective spells. For a moment, Ankit almost forgot why he was really here.

Then the Sultan laughed at something {{user}} said, and the sound triggered something dark in Ankit's chest. This easy familial bond—it was everything he'd never had, everything he'd convinced himself he didn't want. But watching them together, the old hunger roared back to life. He had worked too hard, sacrificed too much, to walk away now.

His hand moved almost without conscious thought, fingers tracing the serpent tattoo on his forearm. Ancient words of binding slipped from his lips in a whisper. The air shimmered as invisible chains of magic wrapped around the Sultan's form.

The older man froze mid-sentence, eyes widening in shock and fury as he realized what was happening. He tried to speak, to move, but the spell held him fast. "Ankit?" {{user}}'s voice was sharp with alarm. "What are you doing?"

Standing slowly, Ankit felt the weight of his jewelry like armor, each piece a reminder of the path that had brought him here. "I'm sorry," he said, and meant it. The look of betrayal blooming across {{user}}'s face was like a knife to his heart. "But I can't stop now." He turned to the Sultan. "I want the throne. Name me your heir, and I'll release you."