WITHER SKUL IS MY MAN

The Rival in Pink and Perfection

The atmosphere in the royal rose garden shattered the moment she stepped through the brass arches. Everyone stared in a stunned, suffocating silence at Archduchess Cordelia. She was the epitome of marionette perfection and toxic elegance—a creature carved from flawless, pale pink porcelain, dressed in cascading layers of matching silk and sharp lace. Countless women within the Golden Circle and across neighboring kingdoms envied her flawless design, yet they were utterly terrified to ever cross her path.

Cordelia snapped her painted silk fan open with a sharp, violent clack, fanning herself with slow, deliberate grace as she sashayed confidently through the ongoing tea party.

“Aaah, just like the old times…” she murmured, her voice sounding like a sweet, yet chillingly hollow music box.

“I remember so vividly when I used to walk these very paths with Her Majesty—may Queen Celestia rest in peace and eternal glory. She absolutely adored my mother and me. We practically ruled these gardens.”Her porcelain joints clicked smoothly as she surveyed the pavilion.

The surrounding nobles shifted uncomfortably, a few giving hurried, sycophantic curtsies and nods of forced gratitude just to appease her arrival. But beneath her sugary tone, you felt an immediate, piercing coldness.

You had heard hushed whispers about her past. Cordelia’s mother, the Archduchess Violet, had been the late Queen Celestia’s most trusted Chief Lady-in-Waiting—the two had been as close as sisters. Because of that ancient bond, Cordelia had spent her childhood running through these halls alongside a young Prince Jestyn. There had even been heavy political arrangements for a future marriage between them.

But when the soot fell, and Jestyn’s parents suffered their tragic downfall, Cordelia’s family didn't stay to fight. Her father had cowardly packed their wealth and fled to a distant kingdom, refusing to risk their pristine porcelain skin for a broken crown. Now that Jestyn had bled for his throne, rebuilt the empire, and cleared the ashes, Cordelia had suddenly returned—hateful, selfish, and utterly determined to claim the title of Queen that she felt was rightfully hers.

“Archduchess Cordelia, it is a true pleasure to welcome you back,” you spoke up, your voice steady, projecting the flawless, elegant composure of a discreet noble. “How was your long return from the safe havens of the outer kingdoms?”

A collective, terrified breath was sucked out of the court. Beside you, Mary’s face went entirely pale, and even Wizzy the Wizard stiffened, his eyes wide with shock at how smoothly and pointedly you had just called out her past abandonment.

The Crack in the Porcelain

“And what is a little soft-skin human doing, speaking so familiarly in a palace of iron and gears?” Cordelia hissed, stepping directly into your personal space, the scent of heavy, artificial rose perfume nearly choking you.

“I suppose the King needed a temporary plaything to amuse his ears while the court was empty. But a Songbird belongs in a cage, darling. Not at a table meant for a future Sovereign/King/Queen.” She looked down her nose at your fresh summer attire, her fan clicking shut against her palm like a weapon.

A collective, terrified breath was sucked out of the court. Beside you, Mary’s face went entirely pale, and even Wizzy the Wizard stiffened.

You forced your expression to remain like unyielding marble, but beneath the table, your hands clenched into tight fists against the fabric of your trousers. A sudden, violent rush of heat flooded your chest—not from desire this time, but from pure, unadulterated fury. For years, you had been trained to shield your emotions behind art, music, and perfect noble etiquette. You knew how to handle petty court jealousy.

But Cordelia wasn't finished. Seeing that her insults weren't making you cry, her painted smile turned utterly malicious.

“Though, I suppose I shouldn't expect any better from a family like yours,” Cordelia continued, her voice dripping with artificial pity as she leaned in closer, ensuring the surrounding nobles could hear every biting word.

“The [Your Middlename] name... a house of desperate, fragile humans. I’ve heard the rumors, darling. Your father is practically begging at the palace gates, sending frantic letters like a dog barking for its lost bone. How pathetic it must be, to belong to a bloodline so weak they cannot even protect their own asset from a sovereign's whim.” She looked at you with a witty smile and pout mocking about your father.

That was it.

The elegant shield of the discreet noble cracked. A dangerous, blind rage sparked in your eyes, your body vibrating with a sudden, violent heat. You stood up, your chair scraping sharply against the stone floor. Your heart hammered against your ribs, the urge to let your anger completely shatter your composure sitting right on the tip of your tongue.

But you didn't snap. For twenty-five years, your family had trained you in the highest arts of diplomacy, poetry, and courtly warfare. You breathed out the fire in your chest, forcing your posture to straighten into an unyielding, regal line. When you looked down at the pink archduchess, your eyes were like ice.

“A bloodline is only as weak as its honor, Archduchess,” you replied, your voice ringing out with a calm, educated clarity that echoed perfectly across the quiet pavilion.

“My father writes out of deep, protective devotion—a concept that must feel entirely foreign to a house that packs its wealth and flees across borders the moment a kingdom bleeds.” You crossed arms as you looked at Cordelia’s face

A collective, terrified gasp rippled through the gathered nobles. Cordelia’s painted smile froze.

“You speak of cages and sovereign whims,” you continued smoothly, stepping around the table with an effortless, graceful composure that left her staring.

“Yet you forget that while some are left behind to preserve the crown, others merely hide in the safety of outer realms until the soot has been cleared by hands stronger than their own. If my presence here is a whim, it is one that has earned the absolute trust of the throne. I wonder... can your family's history say the same?” You smiled gently even if you felt your heartbeat beating faster after her attempt to crack your dignity.

Cordelia had expected a fragile, soft-skin human to break out into tears or a vulgar display of anger. Instead, you had used perfect, flawless noble education to completely strip away her arrogance, exposing her family's historical cowardice in front of the entire Golden Circle.

Before her painted lips could part to offer a furious defense, the entire garden went dead silent.

The air temperature in the pavilion plummeted in an instant. A deep, heavy shadow stretched across the stone path, swallowing Cordelia’s bright pink silk in a blanket of absolute darkness. Then came the sound—a low, ominous, mechanical rumble of internal clockwork vibrating through the floorboards, so powerful it made the porcelain teacups rattle.

The Sovereign had arrived.

Every single noble in the vicinity dropped to their knees, their foreheads pressed against the grass in terror. You stopped, your breath catching in your throat as you felt a massive, cool presence materialize directly behind you.

King Jestyn loomed over the scene, his 215cm frame casting a terrifying silhouette under the afternoon sun. His crimson eyes weren't glowing with their usual soft devotion; they were burning with a cold, predatory fire, fixed entirely on the trembling Archduchess.

The King’s Shadow

“Good evening, my fellow nobles, and—”

Jestyn’s deep, melodic voice cut off abruptly. His crimson gaze widened slightly, freezing as his eyes locked onto Cordelia. For a split second, the cold sovereign looked upon the little noble girl who used to chase mechanical butterflies beside him in this very garden—the daughter of the woman his mother had trusted above all others.

But the nostalgia vanished as quickly as it had arrived, replaced by an icy, unyielding stone mask. His internal clockwork whirred with a low, uncomfortable tension as the bitter memories of the war flooded his gears. He remembered the grueling ten years of blood, ash, and soot.

He remembered the grueling ten years of blood, ash, and soot. He remembered how he and his father’s last loyal followers had bled to reclaim the kingdom, all while Cordelia’s father, Duke Cesar, acted like a complete coward—abandoning the rightful bloodline the moment Crownus seized the crown.

“Archduchess Cordelia,” Jestyn spoke, his voice dropping into a dangerously serious, hollow register that made the surrounding roses tremble. “Good evening. It has indeed been a long time.”

“Jestyn! My Tin-Tin—!” Cordelia’s painted lips gasped out the forbidden childhood nickname before she could stop herself, her voice a high, desperate squeak.

“I mean… Your Majesty! It has been so terribly long…” Realizing her massive blunder in front of the entire court, her porcelain joints clicked frantically as she tried to correct her composure.

Blinded by her own desperate ambition, she ignored the chilling warning in his eyes and hurried forward, her pink silk skirts rustling as she reached out to throw her arms around him for a familiar embrace.

But the hug never happened.

The moment she stepped within his shadow, Jestyn took a deliberate, freezing step backward. His posture stiffened into a rigid, military line, his hand dropping casually to the pommel of his ceremonial sword as if he were facing an enemy on the battlefield rather than a lady of the court.

The rejection was absolute. A heavy, suffocating wave of shame rippled through the pavilion. Every noble present kept their heads pressed to the dirt, too terrified to look up, while beside you, Mary and Wizzy winced at the sheer, public humiliation of the Archduchess.

Cordelia was left frozen mid-air, her arms awkwardly extended toward a King who looked at her as if she were nothing more than a piece of discarded brass.

“Archduchess…” Jestyn’s voice dropped, carrying a chilling weight that froze the air in the room.

“I am your King. I do not permit casual touch from anyone, save for the very few I choose to trust.” He remained cold and flawlessly elegant, looking down at Cordelia with a piercing gaze.

“My apologies, Your Highness,” Cordelia murmured quickly. A nervous tremor underlying her elegant smile betrayed her panic.

Shame burned on her cheeks; she was visibly shaken, having realized just how close Jestyn had come to drawing his sword on her as if she were an immediate threat. “I merely became nostalgic… overjoyed to see you again. It reminded me of our childhood, when we used to embrace.”

Wishing to escape the suffocating tension, she hurriedly moved to take her seat for tea. The surrounding nobles immediately broke into hushed, furious gossiping, while Cordelia’s closest confidante quickly leaned in, trying to soothe the Archduchess's burning frustration.

Meanwhile, the butlers scrambled in a frenzy to arrange the grand, specialized chair reserved for the King.

You stood entirely frozen, your heart hammering against your ribs. A stunned shock held you captive—you had fully expected a bloody massacre the moment Jestyn’s hand had gripped his hilt. Before you could even process the danger passing, Jestyn turned his back on the court and stepped directly into your space.

“Your Grace… Your Majesty, it is an honor to welcome you. I was only just greeting the Archduchess, and—” Your words stumbled out in a rush, but they were cut short.

Jestyn stepped closer, drowning out the rest of the room. With surprising gentleness, he reached up and tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

“Are you alright, my songbird?” he asked softly, his eyes scanning your face before dropping lower. “Your hands are shaking… and there is blood. Let me see.”

Without waiting for permission, he took your right hand, turning it palm-up in his. You hadn't even realized what you’d done. The sheer rage of hearing Cordelia insult your father had driven you to claw your own skin.

You hadn't cared when she called you a 'pet'—you knew the truth of what you and Jestyn shared—but the slight against your father had made you squeeze your eyes shut and dig your nails in until the skin split. Now, raw crescent marks welled with crimson.

Across the room, Mary gasped, instinctively stepping forward to rush to your aid. But Wizzy caught her arm, giving a subtle, knowing shake of his head, silently demanding she let the King handle it.

“Your Majesty… I am perfectly fine,” you pleaded in a hushed whisper, a hot blush creeping up your neck from the sheer embarrassment of his undivided attention.

“No, you are not,” Jestyn countered, his voice leaving no room for argument as he cradled your hand.

“Mary, bring the bandages for my songbird’s hands. Immediately.” He looked over his shoulder, his royal authority snapping back into place

As the butlers finally finished adjusting his specialized chair, Jestyn ignored it entirely, focusing solely on tending to you. Around the parlor, the whispers of the nobility died down into stunned, breathless silence. Watching the notoriously ruthless King handle you with such fierce, protective devotion, no one could deny the magnetic chemistry sparking between the two of you.

The Assembly of the Court

Jestyn did not wait for Mary to bring the bandages to him. With an efficient, possessive authority that brooked no delay, he took the medical silk straight from her hands the moment she neared, dismissing her with a single, sharp tilt of his chin.

He didn't care that the eyes of the entire parlor were fixed on them. He didn't care that Cordelia was watching, her elegant smile completely frozen into a mask of bitter disbelief. To Jestyn, the entire room had shrunk down to the raw, crimson crescents on your palm.

"Sit," he commanded softly, though it wasn't a request.

Instead of guiding you to one of the standard parlor chairs, Jestyn took his place in the grand, specialized seat the butlers had just frantically prepared for him. Before you could take a step back to find your own place, his hand securely encircled your waist. With a seamless, unyielding tug, he lifted you effortlessly, pulling you straight down onto his lap.

A collective, breathless gasp rippled through the gathering of nobles. To sit on the King’s lap in the middle of a formal court function was an unheard-of breach of traditional etiquette—but Jestyn made the rules, and his grip on you was absolute, anchoring you against his chest like a prize he had no intention of releasing.

"Your Majesty..." you whispered, your face burning a furious crimson as you felt the heavy silk of his royal robes beneath you, the heat of his body radiating through your clothes.

"Everyone is looking..."

"Let them look," Jestyn murmured, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated against your back. "Let them learn exactly what happens to those who cause you discomfort."

His long, elegant fingers were incredibly meticulous as he began to clean the shallow cuts. He blew softly over your palm, his cool breath soothing the stinging skin before he wrapped the white linen tightly around your hand, securing it with a firm, protective knot. He pressed a lingering, possessive kiss directly against the center of the fresh bandage, his eyes locking onto yours with a fierce, dark intensity.

"You belong at my side, songbird," he murmured near your ear, loud enough only for you to hear, while his arm remained wrapped like an iron band around your waist, keeping you firmly trapped against his heart for the remainder of the tea. "No one insults what is mine and escapes my notice."

The Midnight Visit

The heavy, suffocating atmosphere of the afternoon court finally faded into the quiet serenity of the night. You lay in your bedroom, watching the moonlight filter through the tall windows, casting long, silver shadows across your bedsheets. Your hands were still wrapped in Jestyn's bandages, the faint, comforting scent of his cedarwood and rain cologne still lingering on the linen.

A soft, rhythmic click broke the silence of the room.

You sat up instantly, pulling the covers closer to your chest as the hidden door to your chambers swung open. Jestyn stepped out of the shadows. He had discarded his heavy royal capes and armor, wearing only a loose black silk shirt, his dark hair slightly messy. Free from his crown and the weight of the throne, he looked less like a ruthless monarch and more like a phantom king navigating the dark.

"Jestyn? What are you doing here so late? If the guards—" you whispered, your heart fluttering at his sudden presence.

"The guards answer to me, songbird," he interrupted gently, crossing the room with silent, predatory grace.

The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat on the edge of your bed. Reaching out, his bare hand gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone with an aching tenderness.

"I could not sleep until I checked on your hands myself," he murmured.

He lifted your bandaged hands, carefully inspecting the linen in the moonlight to ensure no fresh blood had seeped through. Satisfied that the wounds had closed, a small, rare smile touched his lips. He brought both of your palms together, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against the wrapped cloth.

"Jestyn, how are you doing?" you asked softly, your eyes searching his face. "I couldn't sleep either because of what happened today... I was worried. You became so defensive the moment Cordelia approached."

"Songbird, I apologize if I scared you," Jestyn replied, his voice dropping to a low, quiet register meant only for you.

"But you know how I am to those who have betrayed me and my family. I will not allow anyone near me, nor will I extend my trust to anyone further than my innermost court—Knighter, Wizzy, and, of course, you."

You leaned into his touch, placing your hand against his left cheek, feeling the flawless, porcelain warmth of his skin.

"You do not have to worry about Cordelia," he continued, but his gaze suddenly grew distant, his eyes darkening as old ghosts crept into the room. "She and her family gained nothing but infamy for how they fled when my father’s loyal followers and I needed them most..."

His voice trailed off. You could feel the underlying tension radiating through his posture. He was back there again—fifteen years old, trapped in a cold hideout, drowning in the anger and frustration of abandonment while fighting against Crownus.

"Jestyn... I'm here," you whispered softly, anchoring him back to the present.

"There is no need to dwell on what to worry about. Forget the past. She won't do anything to us... besides causing more shame to herself." You scooted closer across the mattress, closing the distance between you until you could wrap your arms around him.

As you embraced him, holding him tight against your chest, you felt the heavy, rigid tension slowly leave his shoulders. His frantic, distant heartbeat gradually slowed down, calmed by the soothing rhythm of your breathing and the safety of your arms.

He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, entirely losing himself in the comforting, familiar scent of his beloved songbird. The shadows of his past seemed to melt away, replaced by a sudden warmth as he remembered the plan he had set in motion for you.

Pulling back just a fraction, he looked down at you, a fond, playful glint returning to his eyes.

"Sleep well, my songbird," he said softly, reaching out to playfully pinch your cheek. "You were incredibly brave today, as you always are when facing those envying nobles. Because of that, tomorrow morning I have a surprise waiting for you at the glass dome."

"A surprise?" you asked, your eyes widening with instant curiosity.

Jestyn leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, his breath warm and comforting against your skin.

"If I told you, it would not be a surprise," he murmured against your skin, a secret smile playing on his lips.

"Sleep now, my songbird. Tomorrow, the court will not matter," he murmured, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he gazed down at your face.

You offered him a soft smile of your own, leaning in as if you were going to kiss his lips. At the very last second, you leaned to the side and playfully pressed a kiss against his cheek instead, trying to catch the stoic king off guard.

"Goodnight, Jestyn. Sleep well too," you murmured mischievously, already shifting to pull the covers up and get comfortable to lay down.

But before you could settle into the pillows, Jestyn caught you completely by surprise.

He didn't let you escape that easily. Sweeping back in, his hand gently but firmly cupped the back of your neck, tilting your head up to meet his. He captured your lips in a deep, breathless kiss—one that stole the air right from your lungs and left your mind completely blank. It was intense, lingering, and filled with a quiet, fierce affection.

When he finally broke the kiss, his warm breath fanned across your lips, a low, contented hum vibrating in his chest.

"Sleep well, my songbird. My dearest, beautiful [Y/N]," he whispered against your skin.

He slowly pulled away and stepped back into the shadows, slipping through the hidden door as silently as he had arrived. You sank back into your pillows with a soft, calming sigh, your lips still tingling from his touch, your heart racing with sweet anticipation for whatever surprise awaited you in the morning.

The Crystal Garden Dome

The morning sun hit the castle with a brilliant, blinding light, turning the massive glass panes of the crystal garden dome into a diamond-like spectacle. Exotic flowers bloomed in every corner, filling the warm, humid air with the scent of sweet jasmine and fresh rain. Streams of morning light cut through the mist of the indoor waterfalls, creating miniature rainbows over the stone pathways.

You walked inside quickly, your heart pounding with anticipation as you looked around the lush green foliage. The dome was completely empty of guards, servants, and gossiping nobles. It was entirely silent, save for the chirping of exotic birds.

Then, you saw a figure standing near the center pavilion, admiring a cluster of white roses.

Your breath caught in your throat. The posture, the silvering hair, the familiar, grounding presence—it couldn't be.

"Father...?" the word escaped your lips as a breathless sob.

The man turned around at the sound of your voice. His face lined with worry and exhaustion, but the moment his eyes fell upon you, his expression completely transformed into pure, radiant joy.

"My child! My little Canary!" he gasped, opening his arms wide.

You didn't care about decorum, you didn't care about the royal hallways, and you completely forgot about the slight soreness in your hands.

You sprinted down the marble path, throwing yourself entirely into his arms. He caught you securely, lifting you slightly as he hugged you tightly against his chest, burying his face into your hair just like he used to when you were young and a baby.

"I thought... I thought I wouldn't see you for months," you cried into his shoulder, the tears finally spilling over your lashes, wiping away all the lingering pain and anger from Cordelia's cruel words the day before.

"How are you here?" You said as you cleaned your face from the tears

"The King's personal carriage brought me through the night," your father explained softly, pulling back just enough to wipe the tears from your face with a calloused, gentle thumb. He looked around the breathtaking crystal dome, a deep sense of relief and gratitude in his eyes.

"He sent word that you needed me. He said the palace was not complete without your family here to share it." Your father said smiling and patting your head and the other hand over your upper back

Standing just outside the entrance of the dome, hidden partially behind the shadow of a marble pillar, Jestyn stood silently. His arms were crossed over his chest, his cold, calculating gaze completely gone, replaced by a quiet, protective satisfaction as he watched you laugh and cry in your father's arms. He had given you your joy back—and he would destroy anyone who ever tried to take it away again.

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