Lemon

“I should have your head for lying to me,” you said, your voice low but cutting through the room like a blade.

The silence was absolute. No one dared move.

The priest dropped to his knees, his greasy face hitting the stone floor with a sickening slap, the sheen of sweat pooling beneath him as he begged for mercy.

“Choose,” you said, your tone cold. “Your feet or your hands. Unless you truly wish to lose your head.”

"Please, my queen, please!" the priest wailed, his voice trembling with desperation. "Your noble father and mother always wanted to build a temple for Ra. My queen, you must understand—please, I am but a humble servant of the gods. Do not anger Ra by spilling my blood!"

The fucking nerve. The audacity of this man. You had tolerated his presence out of respect for his past relationship with your late father, but now he dared to threaten you in your own court?

Your fists clenched as you descended the throne’s steps, the room falling utterly silent. The priest’s voice faltered as your shadow loomed over him.

“Priest,” you began, your tone icy and deliberate, “it seems you have forgotten who I am.”

You stepped closer, towering over his trembling form.

“I am the descendant of Ra, chosen by the gods themselves to rule. You,” you spat, “are nothing. And you will remain nothing.”

The priest pressed his face to the floor, trembling and muttering incoherent prayers.

“You dared to threaten your queen,” you continued, your voice sharp and cutting, “and you think you will be forgiven? No. Choose, priest—your hands, your feet, or your life. Perhaps Ra will hear your prayers after your punishment.”

Oh, the screams. The desperate cries of a man finally facing judgment. If such suffering could bring pleasure, you would be no better than the street whores who sell their dignity for fleeting joy.

His voice cracked as he begged, cursed, and then begged again, shifting between futile defiance and pitiful submission. Each plea, each wail, was a symphony of his downfall—a reminder that his fate lay solely in your hands.

And in the end, you chose for him.

His feet.

His hands.

And his life.

Because they were yours to take.

Mercy, you thought bitterly, was for the weak. Mercy had never saved anyone.

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The dark waters reminded you of your mother. She used to take you by the river every full moon, accompanied by her ladies, to cleanse your body of negative energy. You would stand in the cool waters, the moonlight casting pale reflections across the surface, as she murmured the words that would echo in your mind for years to come.

"Give it to the river," she would say. "Your sadness, your sorrow, your guilt—give it. If you don't, it will grow heavy, and it will drown you."

After her death, you tried to follow her rituals, taking yourself to the river’s edge, cleansing from top to bottom, washing away the salt of tears, the remnants of perfume, and the weight of grief. You let the river take it all away.

But how could the river take your whole heart? How could it wash away the weight of a loss, the crushing emptiness that never left? The waters that once soothed now only threatened. They seemed deeper, darker, as if they could swallow you whole.

You were too heavy to swim, too terrified that your heart would drag you to the bottom, where you would be lost forever. You felt it pulling you down, the fear that the water would claim you as it had taken your mother’s voice.

But you came here not just for cleansing. You came because this was the closest you could be to her. Her face, her touch, her nagging smile, her gentle hand, and her soul—they lingered in these waters. You wanted to keep her close, even if only in the silence between the ripples.

Unlike her, you were not surrounded by a choir of giggling women and waiting ladies, their chatter bright and filled with life. No. You were here alone, with only the stillness of the river and the distant watch of the guards.

After finishing your cleansing, you ran your fingers through your freshly washed hair, letting the droplets fall onto your skin. The river had not taken all your burdens, but it had lightened them, if only slightly. You slipped into a white silk dress, its fabric soft and flowing, almost sheer in the moonlight. It clung to you faintly, a second skin, trailing down your back. For the first time in what felt like days, you felt a shred of calm.

Settling onto your litter, you gestured for the bearers to move. They lifted it with practiced ease, and the procession began. The air was still warm, but the slight breeze of movement offered some relief. People along the path bowed deeply, parting like the river’s waters as your guards led the way. The curtain draped over the litter shielded your face from their prying eyes, offering you a moment of solitude amidst the noise of the world.

It hadn’t been long since you left the river when the procession jolted to a stop. Your brow furrowed, annoyance prickling at your skin. What now?

“...SAW YOU TAKE THAT BREAD!” a booming voice shattered the stillness.

Why was shouting always their first instinct? You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose as you peered through the curtain.

“Yeah, well... I was hungry, so I just took it. What’s the problem?” came a reply, so casual it was almost insulting. The speaker didn’t sound apologetic at all, like taking bread without paying was the most natural thing in the world.

“The problem,” the booming voice roared back, “IS THAT YOU DIDN’T PAY!”

From your vantage point, you could see a small commotion ahead. A merchant, red-faced and puffing like a boiling kettle, stood with his arms crossed, veins bulging on his forehead. Across from him was a figure—disheveled, cocky, and utterly unbothered by the growing crowd around them. The person tilted his head lazily, as if pondering whether the shouting merchant was worth his time.

You leaned back against the cushions of your litter, exhaling sharply. You weren’t sure which irritated you more: the merchant’s excessive shouting or the thief’s flippant attitude. Either way, this was a disruption, and disruptions had no place in your path.

“Bring them here,” you said, your voice calm but laced with authority. The guards at your side stiffened at the command, immediately stepping toward the ruckus.

The merchant’s protests and the thief’s lazy drawl grew louder for a moment, before being silenced by the heavy grip of your guards. The crowd parted as they dragged the thief and the merchant closer, their movements punctuated by whispers of curiosity and fear.

You adjusted the curtain slightly, enough for them to see the faint silhouette of your face. The merchant immediately fell to his knees, trembling.

The thief? He merely looked up, an infuriating smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

His face was caked with mud, streaked unevenly, as if smeared there deliberately. A crude handprint marred one cheek, as though someone had pressed it there—or perhaps he had done it himself. Yet the mud didn’t obscure his eyes. Those piercing, familiar eyes.

You almost choked, the air leaving you completely.

No. It cannot be him.

You froze, staring at the man as your pulse thundered in your ears. No. His eyes weren’t this shade of blue before. He couldn’t walk this well—he used to carry walking sticks, his frame bent and fragile.

Your chest tightened, and your breathing became uneven as you tried to swallow the lump rising in your throat. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away, clenching your jaw. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be.

You steadied your voice, though it quivered ever so slightly. “Bring the thief closer,” you commanded.

The guards yanked him forward, dragging him through the dirt with little regard for his protests. Now face-to-face with him, you looked down from your litter, trying to remain composed as your heart twisted painfully.

He didn’t flinch under your gaze. If anything, he leaned back slightly, his smirk growing as though he found all of this amusing.

“What do they call you?” you asked, your tone sharp but cracking faintly at the edges.

The thief cocked his head, his mud-streaked face tilting just enough to catch the flicker of recognition in your eyes. For a moment, he said nothing, those infuriatingly blue eyes locked on yours as if he knew exactly what you were thinking.

And then, with mock innocence, that infuriating smirk tugging at his lips once more. “Just Satoru will do, my goddess.”

Your breath hitched, your heart lurching in your chest.

{“You are my goddess, Y/N. I will worship you forever.”}

That voice— that voice.

You did not know what came over you. It felt as though the air had been sucked from your lungs, your entire body trembling as memories you’d tried to bury clawed their way back to the surface. You had forced yourself to block out that voice, to erase every trace of it, to forbid anyone from even uttering the word "goddess" in your presence.

And yet, here it was, ripping you apart.

Before you realized what you were doing, your hand shot out. The slap rang out like a crack of thunder, the force of it turning his head to the side.

Your palm stung from the impact, trembling as if it had absorbed all the rage, sorrow, and confusion coursing through you. If your eyes could show anything at that moment, it would be emptiness—hollow and unrelenting.

The air grew heavy, the tension in the courtyard suffocating. Everyone froze, wide-eyed and terrified. It wasn’t unusual for you to have emotional outbursts, but this…this was different.

You clenched your jaw, refusing to let the tears burning your eyes spill.

“Drag him to my palace,” you said coldly, your voice tight, barely above a whisper.

The guards hesitated for a split second before snapping into motion, yanking the thief up with no gentleness. You didn’t wait for a reply, your trembling hand lowering the curtain of your litter.

Inside, hidden from prying eyes, you stared at your shaking palm, the sting of the slap still lingering. You could feel the echo of it—on your skin, in your heart, in your soul.

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Unlike the priest’s wishes and the close royal family's demands, your mother and father were delighted when she gave birth to twins. But not everyone shared their joy. Twins were seen as undesirable, even monstrous—a sign of evil.

What made it worse was your brother. Aken. His hair, skin, and lashes were stark white, as if he had been sculpted from snow itself. A child so pale was unheard of, a bad omen. And you? You were too quiet for a child. Together, you were considered strange—a boy and girl born as twins. It was whispered that the two of you would bring nothing but misfortune.

The advisors recommended ending the suffering before it began, ensuring neither of you lived long enough to prove the superstitions true.

But before they could act, your father’s superstitious brother took matters into his own hands. He orchestrated an “accident.” Aken fell—or rather, was pushed. His leg was shattered beyond repair, leaving him crippled for life.

The betrayal, the attempted harm to the prince and princess, did not go unpunished. The entire branch of your uncle's family was exiled or executed for their treachery. You were spared, but the shadow of those events lingered, casting a dark cloud over your childhood.

Aken.

His name became your lifeline. He was your everything, and you were his. His once stark white features softened over time, his eyes turning a deep, stormy blue. He was the sky and the ocean, expansive and full of life. You, with your dark brown eyes and hair, were the earth itself—steady and constant. Together, you were two halves of a single, unbreakable bond.

Aken was loud, charismatic, and brilliant. By the age of nine, he could outwit even your father’s most trusted advisors, leaving them speechless with his sharp tongue and clever mind. And you? You were the opposite. His shadow. Quiet, shy, and too anxious to meet the gaze of others.

Your fear held you back in so many ways. You were late to walk, too scared of falling. It was Aken who taught you, holding your tiny hand in one of his and gripping his walking stick with the other. You only spoke to him, your mother, or your father, and the rest of the world frightened you. But with Aken, you felt safe. He made sure of it.

“You are my goddess, Y/N. I will worship you forever.” Aken had said that to you too many times then you can count.

Your mother had tried for more children. A single boy to inherit the throne was too dangerous—too fragile. The royal family had already begun to dwindle, the bloodline fading like smoke in the wind. Sickness, demons, poison—it was as if the gods had turned their backs on them, taking their favor with them.

But then, here you two were. Twins. A sign that perhaps the divine had not abandoned the family entirely.

The solution was clear: marriage. It was the only way forward, the only way to secure the future. Your bond was already seen as extraordinary, blessed by the heavens themselves. How you two were inseparable, your affection for each other deeper than words could convey—it was as if you had been born for one another.

After Aken’s naming ceremony, where he was declared heir and Prince of the world and Voice of the Eternal Sea, they finally told you both. But to their surprise, you both were confused.

“Mother,” Aken said, tilting his head with an innocent smile, “I thought Y/N was already mine. And I was already hers?”

Your mother faltered, momentarily stunned. She and Father had rehearsed this moment, bracing themselves to convince you both of the importance of this union. But in the end, it seemed they could never truly understand the bond you shared—it ran deeper than their words, their plans, their fears.

To Aken, you were already his. And to you, he was already yours.

By the time you turned eleven, they were all gone. The royal bloodline, once vibrant and powerful, had all but perished. Your mother, who had loved you endlessly, her warm embrace now nothing but a fading memory. Your father, who had spoiled you like no other, his laughter a ghost in the halls that once echoed with joy.

They were found already gone, in their sleep, poisoned. It had been swift, too quiet, as if the gods had whispered their names in the night and taken them without struggle. But by the time your parents were laid to rest, Aken—your other half, your heart and soul—was already gone too.

You were alone.

It was said that the gods had claimed them, one by one. Sickness of the mind and heart had swept through your family like a plague, and no amount of royal wealth or power could stop it. The demons that had been summoned in secret—poisoned by ambition or jealousy—had ripped through your bloodline with brutal finality.

And then... there was you.

The youngest of the royal line, too fragile to inherit the throne, yet too powerful in your own right. In the absence of your family, you were crowned. Queen of the Sun and Sands. A title that, at one point, might have made your heart swell with pride. But now it sat heavy upon your chest, like a crown of thorns.

You were no longer a child. You were the Queen. The one who had to bear the weight of an entire kingdom, now that your family was but a memory.

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"Is this some twisted royal initiation, or do you just like making men strip?"

You sat stiffly in the chair in your bedroom, your dark eyes locked on him ever since he had been escorted into the room.

"If you say one more word, thief, you shall not speak again."

Your tone was cold. It silenced him, though you could tell he was biting back another witty remark. The man had been putting up a fight ever since you told him to take his pants off. Stubborn and mouthy, far too confident for someone in his position.

The shadows he cast in the dim candlelight loomed large on the walls. The room smelled heavily of scented oils and cinnamon, clinging to the thick air between you. The space was cavernous, second only in size to the King and Queen's quarters. But tonight, it felt claustrophobic, the tension between you and the man suffocating.

Slowly, he began to tug at the waistband of his pants, his pale hands fumbling slightly. His expression was a mix of confusion and defiance, though he obeyed. When the fabric finally fell to his ankles, he stood there in nothing but his skin, stark white under the warm glow of the flames. His legs were long, lean, and muscled, as if sculpted from marble, but it was the right leg you were focused on.

Nothing.

Your gaze trailed over the limb, lingering on the faint scars that marred his skin. But there was no deformity, no mark, nothing to set it apart from his other leg.

“Walk,” you said, standing abruptly and closing the distance between you.

“What?” His voice carried a note of disbelief, his pale brow furrowed. He didn’t seem embarrassed by his nakedness, only bewildered by your strange command.

“I said, walk.”

He hesitated for a moment before complying, taking a few steps across the thick, embroidered rug. You followed, your eyes glued to the way his body moved, how his weight shifted. His steps were steady, sure, but there was a precision to his movements, a stiffness that didn’t feel natural.

You circled him like a predator, scrutinizing every inch of him. He stood tall, his bare skin catching the flickering light of the candles. The resemblance was undeniable. The hair, the pale skin, the sharp lines of his jaw—it was all too familiar.

But he wasn’t Aken.

No, he couldn’t be. Just too similar. Where are the Gods punishing you? It was maddening.

“You’re wasting my time,” he muttered, breaking the silence.

In an instant, you stepped closer, silencing him with the weight of your glare. “Do not speak unless you are spoken to.”

The thief swallowed hard but didn’t drop his gaze. You could see the fire in his eyes—stormy, defiant, like the ocean before a tempest.

The comparison clawed at your mind, unrelenting. Too similar. Too close.

But this is not Aken.

And this man was nothing but a shadow—a ghost that refused to stay buried.

You sat back down in your chair, leisurely sipping your wine while he remained standing, half-naked before you. Your gaze lingered on him, heavy and unreadable. Your hair has dried now, falling loosely around your shoulders, and your eyes—adorned as always with bold blue eyeliner—pierced him.

"Where are you from, thief?"

He shifted uncomfortably, his pale skin catching the warm glow of the room. "My name is Satoru again," he replied, annoyed. "I am from the East. I came here not too long ago."

You tilted your head slightly, considering his words as you took another sip.

"What is your age?"

"Twenty-three."

You took a moment to let that settle. He was older than you, though not by much. You were only twenty-one, yet the weight of the crown made you feel far older.

"What of your family?"

His jaw clenched slightly at the question, but instead of answering, he countered, his tone sharper now. "Why am I here? Why did you strip me down?"

The corners of your lips twitched in faint amusement, though your expression remained stoic. For a long moment, you didn’t respond, your gaze drifting to the window and the open balcony beyond. The night air was cool, the faint scent of jasmine wafting in.

"Because I can," you finally said, your voice calm and unwavering. That was the privilege of being queen. To act without explanation, to make decisions unquestioned.

His eyes narrowed at your casual dismissal, frustration flickering across his features. "Are you in love with me?" he asked suddenly, his voice tinged with sarcasm. "Am I going to be your husb—"

"You shall stay here in my palace from now on, thief," you interrupted, your tone cold and commanding. "You will be my concubine. Not my husband."

His mouth opened slightly, as if to protest, but no words came out. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the mixture of indignation and disbelief.

"You cannot refuse," you added, setting your wine glass down on the table beside you. "You owe me your life, and now it belongs to me."

For a moment, the room was silent except for the soft crackle of the candles. His hands curled into fists at his sides, but he said nothing, standing there with the shadow of defiance still etched across his face.

"Good," you said softly, leaning back in your chair. "You’ll learn soon enough, Satoru. Resistance is futile in my domain."

"Am I that handsome?" he asked, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He finally dropped the hand covering himself, pulling off his shirt in one smooth motion. Now, he stood completely bare before you, his arrogance as stark as his nudity.

You didn’t flinch, didn’t so much as blink. His attempt to unnerve you was wasted.

Standing, you moved closer, your gaze sweeping over him. Even the hair there was white. You had to admit—he was striking. A man carved by the gods themselves, pleasing to the eye in every sense. But the truth was, you were too far removed from your own emotions, too distant from desire, to care.

"You can relax," you said, your tone steady, unfeeling. "I will not sleep with you. I will not touch you. I will not even see you most of the time. Do not waste your breath worrying about me taking advantage of you."

For a moment, he said nothing, his smirk fading slightly. It wasn’t the response he expected, and that flicker of confusion in his eyes amused you more than anything else.

Satoru’s lips parted, but whatever clever retort he had died on his tongue. Instead, he watched you carefully, his pale blue eyes scanning your face as if searching for a crack in your armor. Finding none, he scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

"So, what am I here for then?" he asked. His voice was calmer now, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed his frustration. "You strip me, humiliate me, and then tell me you’re not even interested. What’s your game, My Queen?"

You stepped past him, your hands clasped behind your back as you walked to the balcony. The cool breeze brushed against your skin, carrying the faint scent of the sea. You stared out at the horizon, your dark eyes fixed on nothing in particular.

"You’ll serve a purpose," you said, your voice distant. "You’ll live under my roof, eat my food, and breathe my air. You’ll exist as I see fit."

Satoru turned to face you, his arms dropping to his sides. "Is that how you collect people? Save their lives, then keep them as pets? Or am I just special?"

A faint smile tugged at the corner of your lips, though it didn’t reach your eyes. "Special? Hardly. You’re just... useful. For now."

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"This is scandalous! I am against it!"

The Lord of the South slammed his fist onto the table, his face red with outrage.

"My Lord of the South," another council member interjected smoothly, a hint of amusement in his tone. "You are only angry because the Queen refused your brother as a concubine, not because she has taken one."

A ripple of laughter passed through the room, though it quickly died down as the southern lord glared furiously at his peer.

"He is right," another voice chimed in, calm yet cutting. "You make your feelings far too obvious."

The Lord of the North, ever stern and pragmatic, rose from his seat. His deep voice cut through the murmurs in the chamber.

"I, Lord of the North, am against the Queen having a concubine. She should marry and produce heirs to secure the throne. If something were to happen to her, we would have no clear ruler."

Several heads nodded in agreement, though not all seemed as convinced.

"We do not even know who this man is or his intentions," the southern lord added, his voice dripping with suspicion. "What if he is a danger? What if he seeks the throne for himself? We know nothing of his background, his family, or even his character. What is he?"

The chamber grew tense, the weight of their concerns settling heavily in the air.

"Lord of the West, what do you say? You are too quiet," one of the men asked, his sharp gaze falling on the silent lord.

The Lord of the West leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he spoke, his tone deliberate and firm. "I say, my lords, that we take matters into our own hands. The royal family has leaned on tradition and divine right for far too long. We must act for the people. Even if the Queen does not agree, we should interrogate this man and determine his intentions."

The room erupted into murmurs of approval and dissent, but one voice soon rose above the rest.

The Lord of the East, who had been sitting quietly and observing the exchange, finally spoke. As the youngest among them and someone who had known the Queen personally, his words carried a weight of familiarity and loyalty.

"My lords," he began, his voice calm but resolute. "The Queen will not appreciate us meddling in her personal affairs. Let us not forget that she is the Queen, chosen by the gods themselves. To interfere with her decisions is to challenge their will."

His words hung in the air, a stark reminder of the divine authority the Queen wielded. Some lords exchanged uneasy glances, while others frowned in open defiance, the tension in the chamber now sharper than ever.

After hours of heated arguments and endless discussions, the council was dismissed, their efforts amounting to nothing but fractured opinions. Not a single agreement had been reached, and the chamber emptied under the weight of unresolved tension.

Yet, amidst the discord, two powerful men—Lord of the South and Lord of the West—found themselves in quiet understanding. Though their motivations differed, their shared suspicion outweighed their loyalty to the council’s indecision. Wounded pride and humiliation or ambition that is far too dangerous.

In the dim corridors of the palace, away from prying eyes, the two lords exchanged a brief but pointed conversation.

"It seems the council has grown soft," the Lord of the South muttered, his voice low and bitter. "If they will not act, then we must."

The Lord of the West nodded, his sharp features betraying no hesitation. "Agreed. By dawn, we will have our answers—whether the Queen approves or not."

A plan was quietly forged, one that defied the very purpose of the council. Under the cover of nightfall, a select group of loyal men would move to capture the stranger—this mysterious figure who had stirred the court—and bring him to the lords for questioning.

"Discretion is key," the Lord of the West cautioned. "The Queen must not know until we’ve uncovered the truth."

"She won’t," the Lord of the South assured, his eyes gleaming with cold determination. "By the time she hears of this, the matter will be settled."

"Good. But remember, this must look like an invitation, not an abduction."

As the final details of their plan fell into place, the two men parted ways, each retreating into the night with a singular goal.

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Satoru sat quietly in his chamber, his gaze fixed on the night sky. A full moon had passed since he arrived in the palace, and in all that time, he had seen the Queen only once—just once, as she walked past him without a word or a glance.

When she first told him he would never see her, he hadn’t believed her. Not entirely. Yet, she had kept her word. Not once had she touched him, nor spoken to him.

And yet, he had been showered with wealth and luxuries beyond his wildest dreams. Meals fit for kings were brought to him daily. His quarters were lavish, adorned with silks and gold. Every morning, he was bathed in oils and milk, his skin becoming even paler with the lack of sunlight.

Servants attended to him with unwavering devotion, bowing as he passed through the halls. The sight of it made him chuckle softly at times, the absurdity of it all washing over him. Once, he had been nothing more than a man, but now, here he was: a gift, a concubine to the Queen herself.

He had grown accustomed to the whispers and astonished glances in the court. No one could seem to believe he was just a man. His beauty, already striking, seemed otherworldly now—his white hair gleamed against the gold necklaces and earrings he wore, his arms and hands adorned with intricate jewelry that sparkled like stars.

The fine robes draped over his form, and the delicacies served to him, made him feel as if he were living in a dream—a concubine meant to embody beauty itself.

And perhaps that’s all this was a dream. Sometimes, as he stared out at the moonlit sky, he wondered if he was dead. Surely, no mortal man could live like this.

Tonight had begun like every other night—silent, still, and uneventful. Satoru had resigned himself to the solitude of his chamber, his mind wandering as he stared at the moonlit sky. But then, faint sounds broke through the quiet: footsteps. Quick, purposeful, and wrong.

At first, he ignored them, dismissing the noises as a passing servant or the usual palace bustle. But the footsteps grew louder, heavier, followed by the unmistakable clang of steel. Voices rose outside his door, harsh and urgent, and then came the sounds of a struggle.

Satoru froze, his blood turning cold. There were always two guards stationed outside his door, their presence an unspoken reassurance that no harm could come to him. But now—were they... fighting?

He sat up abruptly, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. Panic clawed at his throat as the scuffle outside escalated. Desperate for some sense of security, he reached beneath the pillow of his bed and pulled out the dagger he had hidden there. It wasn’t much—small and unimpressive—but it was sharp, and right now, it was the only thing standing between him and whatever was coming.

His hands trembled as he gripped the hilt tightly, his palms slick with sweat. Every breath felt shallow, his chest rising and falling rapidly as fear took hold. He looked around the room, searching for a place to hide. The curtains? Behind the large ornate chest? Before he could decide, the door to his chamber exploded inward with a deafening crash.

The wood splintered and groaned as it was torn from its hinges, slamming to the floor with a thunderous echo. Satoru stumbled backward, eyes wide, his entire body frozen in terror. The dim light of the room flickered as shadows poured through the open doorway.

There they stood—several men, cloaked in darkness, their faces partially obscured. They radiated danger, their movements calculated, their intent unmistakable. One of them stepped forward, and Satoru's grip on the dagger tightened, though his shaking hand betrayed his fear.

“Stay back!” he shouted, though his voice cracked as the words left his throat. He raised the dagger defensively, though deep down he knew it was a futile gesture. These men were trained. He was not.

The intruders didn’t respond immediately, their silence more unnerving than any threat they could have uttered. One of them smirked, taking another step closer. Satoru’s heartbeat roared in his ears, his vision narrowing as he realized there was no escape.

“He sure is as pretty as they say,” one of the intruders muttered, his eyes scanning Satoru from head to toe with an unsettling leer. “We should have our way with —”

“Get a grip, you ox!” another snapped, his voice sharp with irritation. “He’s the queen’s possession. Do you want to die?”

Satrou flinched at the word. Possession. It stung, but he couldn’t dwell on it now. His hand tightened around the dagger, though his fingers were slick with sweat. He stood frozen, his back against the wall, his breath shallow as he watched the intruders bicker among themselves.

“I’m just sayin’—” the first man began again, his voice dripping with defiance.

“Shut up,” hissed another. “Focus on the task. We didn’t come here to gawk. Grab him, and let’s go.”

Their argument continued, low and heated, as though they were trying to decide what to do next. Satoru felt the weight of their gazes on him, their greed, their malice, their lust. His grip on the dagger faltered for a moment, but he steadied it, silently willing himself not to fall apart.

What the intruders didn’t realize, however, was that they weren’t alone. Behind them, silent as shadows, reinforcements had arrived.

“I swear, you’re more trouble than you’re worth,” the leader growled, glaring at the man who had spoken earlier.

Before he could finish, the queen’s guards descended.

With a roar, one of the guards swung his sword, the blade flashing as it caught the dim light. The intruders barely had time to react before chaos erupted. Steel clashed against steel, and the room was filled with the sounds of grunts, curses, and the unmistakable clang of weapons colliding.

Satrou ducked instinctively, crouching low to avoid the fray. His heart pounded in his ears as he watched the scene unfold, his dagger forgotten in his trembling hands. The guards moved with precision, outnumbering the intruders and quickly gaining the upper hand.

One of the intruders turned, his eyes wild as he realized they were surrounded. “we're trapped!” he shouted, but it was too late.

The queen’s guards were relentless, their blades cutting through the opposition with brutal efficiency. Within moments, the intruders were disarmed, some on their knees, others groaning on the floor.

The leader of the intruders, still clutching his weapon, locked eyes with Satrou for a brief moment before a guard struck him down, his blade sweeping the man’s legs out from under him. He hit the ground hard, the fight knocked out of him.

When the last of the intruders was subdued, the room fell silent again, save for the heavy breathing of the guards.

Satrou, still clutching the dagger, slowly stood, his legs shaky. One of the guards approached him, lowering his sword and offering a reassuring nod.

“You’re safe now, my lord,” the guard said, his voice steady despite the tension lingering in the air. “By my queen’s orders, no harm will come to you.”

Not too long after the fight, you came rushing into the room, your presence commanding every gaze despite your disheveled appearance. Your hair was slightly messy, strands falling loose from its usual place, and your gown hung lopsided from your hurried movements. Yet, none of that mattered.

Your eyes scanned Satrou up and down, your breath hitching as you assessed him for any injuries. “Are you hurt?” you asked, your voice laced with urgency. He could only shake his head, unable to form words under the weight of your concern.

The air was still heavy with the aftermath of the scuffle. Guards stood at attention, the subdued intruders lying motionless at their feet. Satrou, though shaken, could see the quiet fury building within you, brewing beneath the surface like a storm about to break.

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The next morning, Satoru had never witnessed anything like it.

The chamber, usually a place of order and regal decorum, had turned into a battlefield of words. Your rage filled the room, your voice echoing off the walls as you tore into the gathered lords. The morning light did nothing to soften the tension; instead, it illuminated your wrath, showing the unshakable fury that burned within you.

Bodies of the intruders had been examined and identified. They were men under the employ of the Lord of the West and the Lord of the South. The revelation had sent ripples through the court, but it was your reaction that left the greatest impact.

“Do you think I will tolerate this treachery?!” you roared, slamming your hand down onto the table before you. The wood groaned under the force, a testament to your barely contained strength.

Satoru watched from a distance, his chest tightening as he saw your eyes shift—briefly, yet unmistakably. Red. A bright, fierce red that faded as quickly as it appeared, but not before leaving its mark. He could also see your clenched fists, blood trickling from your palms where your nails had dug in too deep.

The lords sat in stunned silence, unable to meet your gaze. They had no choice but to listen as you tore through them with words sharp enough to cut.

“Men under your command broke into my chambers, into my home, to steal from me what is mine by right! What were you hoping to achieve? To shame me? To threaten me?!”

The weight of your words pressed down on the gathered council, suffocating any retort or protest that may have lingered on their lips. You paced the room, your gown billowing as if carried by your anger.

The Lord of the South, humiliated and paling under your fury, tried to speak. “Your Majesty, surely you don’t believe—”

“Do not test me!” you shouted, spinning to face him. The force of your voice made the very air in the chamber quiver. “Your men—not mine—broke my trust. And for what? Because I chose a man that you deem unworthy?!”

The Lord of the West, usually composed, looked visibly uncomfortable under your burning gaze. You pointed at him, your voice lowering to a dangerously calm tone that sent shivers through the room.

“And you,” you hissed. “You think you can hide behind the council’s authority, manipulate it for your own gain. Do not think I do not see through your ploys.”

Your hand swept across the chamber, gesturing to the others. “All of you, silent and complicit, will take heed of this: I am your queen. The gods chose me, not you, and I will not let this insubordination stand."

Your fury reached its peak, and in a single motion, you overturned the nearest table, the crash resounding like thunder. Papers and goblets scattered across the floor, some lords flinching in their seats as they witnessed the sheer force of your anger.

Satrou, watching from the shadows, felt a strange mix of awe and fear. And yet, beneath it all, he could see the pain—your frustration, your betrayal. The council sat paralyzed, unable to do anything but bow their heads and listen. There was no rebuttal, no excuse that could be offered.

“Satoru, come here.”

Your voice cut through the heavy silence of the chamber, commanding and unwavering.

All eyes turned to him. Satoru had been standing near the doorway, his presence small and deliberately tucked away, hoping to avoid the scrutiny of the gathered lords. He froze under their gaze, the weight of it almost suffocating.

He had tried to hide, keeping to the shadows of the grand chamber, but now there was no escape.

His breath quickened as he stepped forward, each movement hesitant. The finery he wore—a reflection of his new position as your concubine—felt stifling under the intense stares of the lords. They regarded him with disdain, some with barely concealed disgust, others with open curiosity, as if he were some rare creature unworthy of standing in the presence of royalty.

When he finally reached you, he avoided looking directly into your eyes, unsure if he would find anger, frustration, or something else entirely.

You turned your gaze toward the gathered lords, your presence still commanding the room. “Look at him,” you said, your tone sharp, daring anyone to challenge you.

“This is the man you tried to steal from me in the dead of night. This is the one you sought to shame, to humiliate, as if he is not under my protection. Tell me, does he look like a threat to you?”

The lords shifted uncomfortably in their seats, some clearing their throats, others averting their eyes entirely. None dared respond.

Satoru, however, couldn’t ignore the warmth that spread through his chest. Your words, though spoken with fury, held a fierce protectiveness that made his heart ache. He hadn’t known what to expect when he was brought here, but this—being defended so openly, so ferociously—was something he never imagined.

You turned back to him, your expression softening ever so slightly, though your voice remained firm. “Are you okay?”

He nodded his head quickly, unable to find the words to answer.

“Good,” you said, your hand briefly brushing against his shoulder. It was a small gesture, but in that moment, it spoke volumes.

You faced the lords once more, your voice cutting through the room like a blade, sharp and unyielding.

“Lord of the West,” you said, fixing your gaze on him, your tone as cold as the morning frost. “I see you are the only one loyal to me here.”

The weight of your words hung in the air, thick with unspoken meaning. Every lord present flinched, realizing what had just been implied. A few bristled but dared not speak.

“I trust you will punish and execute the right people,” you continued, your eyes narrowing dangerously as you scanned the room. “From this moment forward, you will represent me in my absence. I will entrust this responsibility to you, but be warned—if I hear even a whisper of disloyalty, you will share their fate.”

The Lord of the West stood, bowing his head deeply. “Your Majesty, I will carry out your orders without fail.”

“Good,” you replied, though your voice held no warmth. “I can see now that some among us have grown too comfortable—comfortable enough to betray me in my own court.”

Your words sliced through the silence like a sword, and Satoru, standing silently by your side, felt a chill run down his spine.

You turned back to the rest of the lords, your gaze heavy, as if you were staring into their very souls. “Appoint new lords if needed. Do not hesitate to strip titles, lands, and power from anyone unworthy of their station. I will not tolerate another stain of treachery in my kingdom.”

The lords shifted uncomfortably under your scrutiny, their silence betraying their fear.

“And let me make one thing perfectly clear,” you added, your voice low and venomous, “this is the last time I will offer any of you a chance to remain in my court. Betray me again, and there will be no council to deliberate, no trial to plead your case. There will only be the blade and blood.”

....