The golden dusk tore through the ornate windows of the royal chambers, casting long shadows over marble floors and velvet-draped walls.
King Alaric lounged back in the grand chair of his chamber, the firelight casting golden shadows over his sharp, regal features. He loosened the collar of his ornate robe.
His eyes—sharp, regal, tired—drifted toward the ceiling as he exhaled a long breath.
"It was quite the ordeal," he muttered, rubbing his temple. "Those nobles... gods, they're insufferable. Clingy. Talkative. Always pretending to care while sniffing for favors."
A soft lodic laugh answered him.
Seated beside him was, Lysandra, his queen—his most treasured companion.
She was the embodint of elegance, wearing violet gown that clung to every curve—ample breasts barely tad by lace, slim waist, legs crossed in effortless seduction.
Her silvery-white hair cascaded down her back in waves, framing a face too perfect for reality—high cheekbones, soft full lips touched with pink.
And glowing athyst eyes frad by dark lashes, held mischief and wisdom, the kind that could unravel kingdoms or make kings kneel.
"They admire you, my king," she said, her voice soft like silk, fingers brushing his arm. "You're their beacon. A king who bleeds for his kingdom... they just want to be close to you."
Alaric let out a breathy laugh, his eyes drifting to her delicate hand. He took it in his own, brushing his thumb along her soft skin. "And right now, your king's ready to collapse." His voice dropped, low and intimate. "Help relieve this stress, my dear queen."
But Lysandra sighed, her smirk fading into a rueful smile.
She shook her head gently, strands of silver catching the light. "You have a eting, Alaric. Don't think you'll escape it just by flashing that boyish charm of yours."
He groaned, head tilting back. "I don't want to go. Those n—half of them are plotting sothing, I can feel it. There's unrest beneath their words, and I'm not ready to face it yet."
She turned to him. "Don't talk like that. They're your n, Alaric. They serve the kingdom just as you do. et them halfway—for kingdom's sake."
She rose gracefully, her gown swaying like water over her wide hips as she stepped in front of him. Her expression was tender but firm as she took his hand and coaxed him to stand.
"Just this once. For today. Then you can co back and collapse all over . Deal?"
Alaric stared up at her, the corner of his mouth tugging into a reluctant smile. He gave her hand a light squeeze. "Still persistent as ever, Lysandra."
The heavy doors of the royal chamber creaked open as King Alaric and Queen Lysandra stepped out side by side, their footsteps echoing down the marbled corridor. Guards lining the hall snapped to attention, their fists striking armor in salute.
The two strode in silence, regal and imposing, until they reached the towering doors of the council chamber.
The guards posted outside straightened and saluted, fists to chests. With a sharp gesture, they pulled the heavy doors open.
Alaric's gaze imdiately swept the room.
Inside, the counciln were already seated—noble lords, military advisors, and political strategists—each cloaked in power and veiled intentions.
They sat comfortably, not a single one bothering to stand in his presence.
They rely nodded.
Alaric's jaw tightened.
'Not even the decency of respect,' he thought bitterly.
Not standing for a king? That wasn't tradition—it was insult. A silent ssage wrapped in false courtesy. One he was far too familiar with.
He said nothing.
Neither did Lysandra.
They walked to their seats—his throne-like chair at the head of the long obsidian table, hers beside it, delicately carved from whitewood.
The mont they sat, the chamber ca alive with cold, calculated words.
One of the elder counciln, a man nad Lord Varnes, began droning about supply shortages, border unrest, economic recovery.
His voice carried the confident rhythm of a man who believed he already owned the throne.
"And so," Varnes said finally, turning toward Alaric with smile, "You've done enough, Your Majesty. Truly. Let us carry the burden now. It's ti for you to rest."
Alaric's eyes narrowed. He rose from his seat. "And what exactly do you an by that, Varn—"
Before he could finish, pain exploded through his chest. "Argh!"
A blade, cold and rciless, pierced him from behind.
His breath hitched. He staggered, eyes wide in shock as blood began to soak through his robes.
Ti froze.
He turned, agonizingly, every muscle trembling. Behind him, one of the younger knights—soone he'd once trusted—pulled the blade free with a sickening sound.
He turned, gasping, and saw the smirking faces of his council. Their chuckles echoed like a funeral dirge.
Lord Varnes stepped forward, smug. "Thank you, Your Majesty... and thank you, my queen," he added, bowing mockingly toward Lysandra. "Without your aid, we'd never have gotten him here."
Alaric's breath caught in his throat.
His eyes searched for hers, hope fading into disbelief.
"You too...?" His voice cracked, thick with betrayal, tears streaking down his face.
But—
She didn't speak.
Didn't deny it.
Only raised her hands to her mouth, eyes wide, lips trembling. Whether it was guilt or fear—he'd never know.
Darkness crept in at the edges of his vision, swimming with pain, heartbreak, and the final shards of shattered trust.
His knees buckled.
And King Alaric fell.
------
Where am I?
The thought echoed in the void, aimless and weightless.
There was no ground beneath him. No sky above. No light. No sound. Only a crushing, endless darkness that wrapped around him like a cold shroud. He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't even feel the weight of his own body.
Is this death...? the question floated through the emptiness.
Then mories began to reel back.
Smiles turned to sneers. Blades drawn in shadows. The laughter of n he'd once called allies... brothers. The very ones he had raised to power. Nurtured. Protected.
He'd given them everything.
Worked endlessly to build a prosperous kingdom, shunning comfort, ignoring his own desires, and burning himself out to keep the realm intact.
He'd missed als, sleep, joy—sacrificing everything for the crown. For the people. For them.
And they had repaid him with treachery. A blade in the back.
But worse, far worse... was her.
Lysandra.
His queen. The crown jewel of his reign.
He saw her face as if it were still before him—stunned, but silent. Silent as they drove a blade through his chest. Silent as they thanked her for delivering him to slaughter.
Their marriage had been political, yes, a union to settle noble tensions. He wasn't blind to that.
But still... gods, what hadn't he done for her?
To him—she had beco so much more.
He had loved her. Truly. Given her everything.
Trust, affection, the freedom to live as she pleased, gifted her power, lavished her with respect, never caged her, never demanded more than she was willing to give.
He asked for nothing in return. Just her loyalty. Her presence.
And how did she repay that?
By leading him into a den of knives.
By taking the side of the very n who murdered him.
For what? Because he was too good? Too dutiful? Because he didn't play their dirty little power gas? Because he dared to rule with purpose instead of manipulation?
Alaric felt sothing twist inside the darkness. A slow, creeping heat beneath the ice. It wasn't sorrow.
It was rage.
Cold. Deep. Burning.
Then maybe... being good was the problem.
He had ruled with honor. And died with none.
He was done sacrificing. Done bleeding for thankless leeches. Done being the noble king in a rotten world.
If this is death... then let it be the death of the man I was.
If life ever gave another chance...I won't be the sa fool again.
Won't wear the crown with a smile while knives were drawn behind .
No more "good king." No more blind trust. No more rcy.
It was as if the world had heard him.
Because just as the thought ford—the abyss opened.
A force pulled him down, dragging him into the depths.
Alaric's weightless form dropped like a stone, dragged into the abyss below.
The darkness, once still, now howled around him. A fall without end. Wind without sound.
Then—
Sensation.
Light exploded behind his eyes.
"Haa... haaa!"He gasped, breath hitched, chest heaving as if rising from drowning.
He tried to move, but every fiber of his body ached. His eyes blinked slowly, heavy like stone, his vision blurry and dull.
His mind reeled, spinning with disorientation. He blinked again, and this ti, they saw.
Gone were the velvet sheets and golden chandeliers.
Gone was the warmth of the fire, the fragrance of wine and perfu.
Around him, was a dim, musty room of stone. The air was cold, damp. Shadows clung to the corners like rot.
Then it hit him—pain. Sharp. Raw. Crawling up his spine.
He hissed, gritting his teeth.
He tried to shift—instinct—but as he moved, sothing cold and solid yanked at his neck.
Clink.
His fingers shot up and t iron. Cold tal.
A collar.
Chains.
The realization sank deep into his gut.
He was collared. Bound.
Shackled like an animal.
User Comments
0 comments from readers