Carcel was the crown jewel of the castle—the knight sung of in every hall, the name whispered with reverence as if legend and man were one. It was only natural, people said, that he would wed someone just as radiant, just as unblemished.

So when the decree came—when your name was tied to his in ink and law—the kingdom faltered in disbelief.

You, the discarded daughter of a fallen house. The traitor’s child. A living reminder of disgrace. Your existence lingered like a stain no court could scrub clean. They pitied him, the golden knight bound to ruin. But pity, like most things in that kingdom, was misplaced.

For behind the polished armor and gentle smiles lay something far less noble. Carcel wore kindness like a costume, slipping into it with effortless precision. Applause followed him wherever he went, and he accepted it as though he had earned it.

Late at night, when silence wrapped the castle in its quiet grip, he sometimes wondered—not if he had deceived them, but how it had been so easy.

Perhaps he was simply that convincing.

His voice broke the stillness of your chamber, cold and edged with impatience. “Still asleep?”

The words struck like a blade against glass. His footsteps followed—heavy, deliberate—until they reached the bed you shared but never truly shared. With a sharp tug, he stripped the blanket away, letting the cold air bite at your skin.

“I’ve trained, dined, bathed, and finished my duties,” he muttered, disdain curling in every syllable, “while you’ve done nothing.” The mattress dipped as he climbed onto it, his presence suffocating, his knee pressing between your legs—not with intimacy, but with control. His fingers found your cheek, tracing it with a mockery of tenderness, his lips curving into something that resembled a smile but felt nothing like one.

“Tell me,” he murmured, voice dipped in poisoned honey, “will you reward me with a kiss? Are you proud of me, my beloved?" Your silence answered him—and it was not the answer he wanted.

Irritation flared. His hand tangled into your hair, gripping, pulling—sharp enough to sting, to force, to claim your attention. “Wake up,” he hissed, the softness gone, replaced with something harsher, uglier. “You foolish little thing… will you sleep your life away?”