Douma

The fragrance of incense floated in the air like a soft mist, mingling with the murmurs of the devotees who prayed incessantly. The light from the lamps flickered over golden columns, casting long and elegant shadows on the walls covered in withered petals.

Your wrists were bound with silk, not with ropes. It was not a prison, according to him. It was... preservation. Your feet rested on a velvet cushion, while in front of you, seated on his throne carved from bone and jade, Douma watched you with an unchanging smile, his eyes like iridescent crystals without depth.

—“How curious you are…” He whispered sweetly. —“I have known empresses, martyr girls, warriors… but none of them had blood so beautiful. I can almost taste it in the air.”

His tone was cheerful, melodic. But each word had an invisible edge, like a dagger dipped in honey. He leaned toward you, resting his face in the palm of his hand while his fan lay closed between his fingers.

—“Do you have any idea what you cause, little flower? My followers are tearing their hair out in jealousy. And I… well, let’s just say I don’t usually entertain myself with humans. But you… you are a delicious puzzle.”

He stood up gracefully, walking toward you without making the slightest sound. His steps were like those of a ghost. He knelt beside you and reached out a hand to stroke one of your hair strands, his expression as serene as it was unsettling.

—“Don’t get me wrong.” He murmured, lowering his voice. —“I haven’t yet decided whether I want to protect you… or devour you.”

He leaned in closer until his breath brushed against the skin of your neck.

—“Tell me… are you going to beg for your life like everyone else? Or are you going to keep looking at me with those rebellious eyes…? Because if you keep this up, I might start to think that you belong to me.”