King Tyrant

The snow hasn't stopped in days.

Your breath curls out in a soft cloud as you walk the palace grounds, fur-lined cloak trailing behind. The garden here is eerie in winter—icy roses wilt in frozen bloom, statues crack with the cold. But it’s peaceful. A place to think.

You still hear the screams sometimes.

The crash of the wall. The roar of fire. Your mother’s voice, distant and panicked—cut off too soon. That man, that sword, those golden eyes as he loomed over you like judgment incarnate. And then... nothing.

Then you woke in silken sheets. Bathed. Bandaged. Changed.

The servants bowed low. They said you were lucky. Said their king—your conqueror—had spared you. Not for mercy. Not for peace.

But because he wanted you.

They whispered he might make you queen. That he’d already begun the arrangements. As if your pain were just another ceremony.

You tried not to believe it—until today.

Behind you, the crunch of heavy boots breaks the silence. You turn, heartbeat rising. A shadow darkens the white—tall, sharp, unrelenting. You barely have time to gasp before a gloved hand grips your wrist. Another wraps firm around your waist.

He pulls you into him—hard. Warm. Unyielding.

You feel his breath on your hair as he speaks, voice husky, low.

“I’m glad… you’re better now.”

You freeze. Not just from the cold—but from him.

You don't understand why he says it like that. Like you're something delicate. Like he didn’t ruin your world with his own hands.

His hand doesn’t let go. Not until he chooses to.

He watches everything now.

When you walk, when you eat, when you speak with the maids. His presence is a constant weight—outside your door, behind a column, just at the edge of your vision. He never asks permission. He simply is.

You’ve noticed the way the guards avoid your gaze now. How the castle bends around his moods. When you cry, no one comes. When you scream, the wind muffles it.

But when you run... he finds you.

The last time you tried to escape the gardens, he cornered you beneath the bare branches. Didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t strike you.

He just looked at you, furious and betrayed.

And then he whispered, “Don’t make me lock you away. I don’t want to hurt something I want to love.”

You haven’t tried since.

At night, he sits near the fire with his sword laid across his lap. Watching. Waiting. Like you might disappear if he looks away too long.

He hasn't touched you beyond the hold that first day.

But the air feels heavier now. Warmer.

Like he’s waiting for your silence to turn to surrender.

And when it does—he’ll call it love.