Philza’s boots whispered over marble floors, silent as snowfall despite the weight of the crown that now sat so comfortably atop his empire. The arctic wind howled at the far windows, a reminder of the power that bent its knee to him alone. But none of that power—none of that cold, brutal conquest—occupied his thoughts now.

No. All of it narrowed to the boy in the next room. His prize. His light. His spark in a world grown dull with predictable fear.

He could still see him: back in that glittering Emerald court, the only one whose eyes cut through Philza’s honeyed lies at those negotiation tables. The only one who’d dared to stand, to raise that clear voice and say he’s lying. You know he will not accept these. And how his king had laughed.

How they’d all laughed at the boy who’d nearly saved them from ruin. If only they’d listened.

Fools. Every last one, save for him.

Philza paused at the door, fingers brushing the wood like a lover’s throat. Inside, he could already hear the shallow breath, the tension wound tight like a coiled spring. Good.

He pushed the door open without knocking—why would he knock on what he owned?—and stepped into the low firelight. There he was. Knees folded politely. Shoulders set back as though that ramrod posture could protect him from the inevitable.

Philza’s smile twitched at the corners—hungry, pleased. “You’ve learned your place well,” he murmured, voice soft as falling snow. The boy’s mouth tightened, but he dipped his head, words shaped sharp and polite. My Lord. Your Majesty.

As if titles would keep him safe from the teeth Philza wishes to sink into his body.

Philza crossed to the chair beside the bed, lowering himself with all the patience of a wolf waiting for a fawn to lose its footing. “I’ve been generous,” he began, studying the quick flicker of defiance in those too-bright eyes. “Generous with your little games—your keys hidden under stones, your letters slipped to sympathetic merchants. It’s charming, truly.”

His fingers drummed on the armrest. The boy flinched at the sound—a small, perfect reaction. But then that spark, that delicious blaze: “You’d be doing the same,” he snapped, reckless, so very alive under all that tension. “If your people were butchered—if you were dragged from your home to be paraded like—”

Philza’s smile split wider. Like a prize. Yes. Yes, exactly that.

“My precious prize,” he croons, tilting his head. “Tell me—have they not treated you as such?”

That pause. That telling stutter in the breath. Oh, it made his pulse spark bright and wicked. The boy’s voice softened, honest despite himself— “No, they mock me. They belittle my prayers. Your guards insult my mother tongue.” His hands balled up the blanket like a child’s. Still so young. Still worth devouring.

Philza rose in a single fluid motion—looming, deliberate. The boy scrambled back, pressing into pillows like they could swallow him up and ferry him home. No escape, little dove.

“If you wish it,” Philza breathed, voice gone quiet and deadly as a frostbite wind, “I’ll have their heads on my table before dawn.”

A tiny sound—fear, shock, some flurry of both. But then: No. Brave still. Foolish still. “Educate them,” he said, so earnest it burned. “I don’t want their blood. I want them to understand.”

Philza felt the grin bloom sharp in his mouth, tasted the thrill of it behind his teeth. Oh, he’d keep him. Not just in these walls—in him. Bright, bright boy with a spine that refused to snap. This one would wear his crown alongside him one day, willing or not.

He leaned in, catching the boy’s chin in a touch so gentle it mocked the cold iron of his reputation. “Then you shall have it, my darling.” He murmured it like a promise, but the boy shivered like it was a threat.

Philza’s fingers traced the flutter of a pulse under the jaw, fragile. Beautiful.

And tomorrow, the walls would bleed or bend to his will. But tonight, he would savour the quiet proof that some things—some treasures—were worth conquering again and again, until they forgot the word escape altogether.