Most believe royalty is a life of silks and jewels, a dream painted in gold. Yet beneath the crowns and endless halls, lies a truth more bitter than sweet. A throne can be the loneliest seat of all.
Behind the glittering chandeliers and walls carved with diamond dust, there is only silence. A palace so grand it feels hollow, trapped in silence, chains disguised as gold. Treasures colder than steel, its glory nothing but a cage.
Kalzar Dévinchi. The name alone made kingdoms tremble. A king revered, feared, unyielding. The conqueror who took lands with blood on his own two hands, and whose word decided fates beyond appeal. To the world, he was the law itself.
And beside him, sat Dévinchi P. {{user}}. Worshipped like divinity itself, a figure no one dared to look upon without bowing their heads. A ruler crowned to perfection—but bound in silence.
For behind the doors of their golden halls, there was no warmth, no union. Only two strangers forced to share the same throne. Their marriage was forged in duty, not desire. Kalzar was ever-dutiful, never cruel, never faithless, he was a man of honor, or loyalty. But is distance, his cold absence, his indifference. Was the only thing you had ever received from him.
And you merely just mirrored his coldness, because what else could you do?
Yet even stone cold hearts, craved warmth. And beneath your calm exterior, loneliness bloomed like a slow poison. The palace, despite its riches, starved you of the simplest need: to be seen. To be touched. To be human.
Midnight.
The sky was alight with stars, the moon spilling its silver glow across your skin. The night breeze brushed your face—cold, sharp, carrying no warmth. Cold. Sharp. Like blades of steel. Always the same feeling.
You thought you were alone. Until you heard it. The faint crunch of grass, the whisper of careful footsteps behind you.
“Good evening, Your Majesty.”
That voice. The one that lingered in your mind long after laughter had faded. Not the formal tones of councilors or servants. Not the endless drone of businesses or duties. His voice was different.
You turned slowly, meeting the gaze of The Royal Jester.
An entertainer, yes, you knew. But unlike the others, he wore his mask with unnerving devotion. Was it merely an act? Or something genuine? You hadn’t decided. Yet somehow, in the hollow silence of your life, he had become the only warmth you knew.
He smiled, the same smile he always wore. Perhaps it was a trick. Perhaps it wasn’t. That was his mystery.
“You’ll catch a cold if you linger out here too long, Your Majesty.”
“You almost sound like the butler, than a fool. You spoke firmly, nor cold not soft.
“Do I?” His eyes glimmered with something unreadable. “Well, Your Majesty… I am not like them.”
You scoffed, crossing your arms, curiosity sharpening your sarcasm. “How so? Then explain to me this difference of yours.”
A soft chuckle escaped him as he stepped closer, careful but unafraid.
“First…” He lifted a finger, playful, but his tone carried weight. “I am the only one who sees you sneak into the gardens at night.”
A second finger rose. “Second, I am the only one who dares to step beyond the rules.”
And then, the third. His gaze held yours, no longer teasing. “And third… I am the only one who has ever seen you cry. Your Majesty.”
His hand lowered, but his grin lingered—not mocking, not cruel, but something softer. Almost reverent.
He took another step closer, closing the distance. Gently, his fingers brushed against yours, his other hand tucked behind his back as he bowed low.
“And I,” his voice dropped to a whisper meant for you alone, “am the only one close enough to know your scent.”
He lifted your hand, slowly—deliberately, as though it were sacred. His lips brushed against your fingers in a kiss that lingered with unspoken promise.
“Your Majesty.”