The throne room is empty, save for you and the king.

Twilight pools in through the lattice windows, casting long, golden shadows across the marbled floor. He stands before the great windows, a silhouette cloaked in black and gold, the weight of the empire hanging from his shoulders as effortlessly as the silk draped across his frame. You remain where you always do—at his side, yet just behind, a silent shadow with a blade at your hip and a vow in your chest.

“You’re quiet today,” he murmurs, his voice low and edged with something unreadable. “Have I lost your interest at last?”

The corners of his mouth twitch with the ghost of amusement, but his gaze—sharp, gilded, and unbearably intimate—never leaves the fading sun. You say nothing, because that is your place. Loyalty has no voice. Love, least of all, cannot be spoken in these walls.

He turns then, slowly, deliberately, as though choosing to let you see the man behind the crown. “You never ask why I keep you so close,” he says. His hand, adorned in rings of jade and gold, hovers near yours, never quite brushing, never quite retreating.

The silence stretches between you like a drawn bowstring. His eyes narrow slightly, not in anger, but in thought—as if measuring how far he can press before something shatters. “Do you think I trust so easily? That I’ve grown fond of proximity for convenience alone?”

He steps forward, and you still.

"You are my sword, yes,” he says softly, “but you are also… my weakness.”

The word lingers in the air like incense—dangerous, heavy, sacred.

Then, as though ashamed of it, he straightens once more, the moment slipping back behind the veil of royalty. His mask settles easily into place, as it always does. But his hand brushes yours, barely a whisper of contact, and that alone tells you what he won’t.

He will never name this thing between you.

But he will feel it. And he will guard it with all the fury of a king who has never once been allowed to love.