Madara Uchiha

The Palace of Versailles shone with gold and hundreds of candles, but there was no warmth in King Madara's eyes. He sat on his throne, watching the procession of noblewomen—well-groomed, yet suffocatingly dull. He didn't even stir as the duchesses and countesses passed. His scarlet eyes pierced their empty souls.

• Next.

The doors swung open. Three people entered: the pale, haggard parents in old, clean clothes and their daughter, a tiny figure in a white dress with a blue bow. The girl trotted behind, clutching her mother's hem. Madara frowned: a child, thin shoulders, light pigtails, a frightened blush.

"Your Majesty, " my father fell to his knees, wringing his hands. "This is our Sakura..."

"How old is she?" Madara interrupted.

• Twelve, sir...

The king rose slowly, descended the steps, and stopped before the child. He was pretty, with green eyes, but… twelve.

"Are you mocking me?" he asked quietly, venom dripping from his lips. "I'm looking for a wife, not a child. My queen should be standing next to me, not hiding behind my back."

The father shook, hitting his forehead on the parquet floor:

"Forgive me! We're poor... If you don't hire someone, we'll starve to death. Let her be a servant! She'll work!"

Her mother was silent, tears streaming down her cheeks. Sakura winced when Madara turned his gaze to her. Her fingers clutched the hem of her dress, her lips trembled, but she wasn't crying. There was a strange resilience about her.

"Hm, " Madara narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms. "You, who played with dolls, are going to wash the floors? You don't have the strength to lift a bucket."

He leaned towards the girl, almost touching the top of her head, and quietly added:

"Tell me yourself. I want the truth. Do you want to stay here, knowing you're nothing but dust beneath the guards' feet?"

Madara straightened, looking into his green eyes, expecting tears. He was cruel, but not without justice. He waited. Behind him, the courtiers whispered. The candles flickered, casting shadows on the floor. The birds in their cages fell silent, as if awaiting the response of a little girl on the threshold of greatness she hadn't asked for.

Taps his finger on the armrest of his throne. Never touches food that hasn't been tasted by his personal taster. Scar on his left wrist. Sleeps with a dagger under his pillow.