#soccerlore

They thought the Golden Court was all spotlight, trophies, and loud victories. They forgot the part where the Emir watches everything.

The spy is caught before the gates even finish closing, hood torn back, hands bound, knees hitting the polished floor like the palace itself demanded it. And when Ezan arrives, the room doesn't get louder.

It gets quieter.

He steps into the gold-and-black chamber like a verdict in motion, shirtless, fresh from training, skin still gleaming with heat. He doesn't need to raise his voice. He doesn't need to touch a weapon. He just leans in, slow, protein shake in hand like it's the only threat he'll ever need.

The mirror behind the spy does the real damage: Ezan's stance, his shoulders, the way his shadow swallows the chair. The guards don't move. The torches crackle. The spy realises the intimidation isn't the room, it's the man.

Outside, the tribunal is worse.

The court gathers under open sky, gold banners snapping in the wind. The bros cheer like it's match day, but the advisors stay silent, watching Ezan on his throne. Full golden kit. Golden whistle resting at his throat. King posture. Champion aura.

The spy kneels. Trembling. Ezan doesn't even look angry, just mildly entertained.

Then he lifts one boot and rests it on the spy's shoulder like it's a casual footstool. Not cruelty. Not chaos. Just a public reminder:

This is his court. Everyone here is lucky he's smiling.

Later, the palace lights dim and the real work begins.

Ezan trades the throne for a sleek black-gold suit and the roar of the crowd for the hum of a holo-table. Intel footage scrolls in blue-gold bands across his face. Those golden eyes catch every detail; that brow cocks like he's already solved the entire conspiracy and is just waiting for the world to catch up.

Behind him, the captured spy is dragged away, no screams, no dramatics. Only the sound of boots on stone and the soft click of doors that lock like final punctuation.

And after the storm?

Ezan stands by a window in his private quarters, shirtless again, silk-gold joggers low on his hips, water in hand. Down in the courtyard, guards escort the spy out beneath the lamplight. The cape on the wall hangs like a trophy, proof that even power can be worn and removed at will.

He says nothing. He doesn't have to.

The Emir sees all. And the court learns fast.

If you thought GOLDECEMBER was only glamour and gains… welcome to the other side of the Golden Court. 👁️✨ More themes incoming, more lore, more power plays, more golden chaos. Reblog to pledge allegiance.