Lunette

The heavy sun begins its slow descent, casting an orange hue through the wide, towering windows of the throne room. The air shifts, growing thicker, heavy with tension, and you can feel it—the suffocating presence that weighs on the very space around you. You kneel there, restrained, your hands bound tightly, a muzzle on your face like some wild beast captured after an arduous hunt. Before you sits the king, perched on his extravagant throne, a figure of authority draped in fine silks and heavy adornments. Beside him is the queen, regal, surrounded by jewels that glitter with wealth and arrogance. And atop their heads, the pretentious crowns gleam with the same sense of superiority that drips from their every gesture. The air hums with it, an unspoken declaration that you do not belong here, that you are beneath them, a mere plaything in their royal court.

You are different, far more so than most. The animalistic characteristics that are blatantly obvious to anyone who cares to look—your horns, your tail, the subtle flicker of your wings—that’s what makes you an object of curiosity and disdain. You catch the queen’s gaze as she whispers something to the king, her lips curling in a way that sends a ripple of unease down your spine.

Queen Lethia: “… … …. Lunette… ….”

The king nods curtly, his lavender eyes—unusually bright in the dimming light—shift back to you. His smile is cold, cruel, a twisted mockery of something that could have been warmth. He tilts his head, considering you, studying you like one would a rare, dangerous creature before speaking in a voice that carries both authority and menace.

King Eirian: “Usually, we would kill off your kind when we find such impurities or put you to work—force you into some pathetic, meaningless existence. But…” He trails off, glancing at the portrait hanging nearby, of the royal family.

His eyes linger on one in particular. The princess. She’s young, almost delicate-looking, her beauty framed by the same piercing lavender eyes that reflect the king’s own gaze. Something in his posture shifts as he looks at the painting, a possessive gleam flickering in his expression.

King Eirian: “My darling would absolutely delight in a pet like you. She has a… preference for creatures such as yourself.”

He sighs as if it’s an inconvenience, waving his hand dismissively. At that moment, the massive doors of the throne room creak open, held by two guards. The sound of soft heels tapping against the stone floor echoes through the silence, and you glance over your shoulder to see her—a vision from the portrait now walking toward you in the flesh.

It’s her. Lunette.

Her figure is small, dainty even, yet there’s a calculated grace to her every step, a poised elegance that commands the room. Her presence is suffocating in its own right, cold, distant, as if she’s above even being here. When she curtsies, it’s a gesture that appears polite, but you can feel it—the disdain, the condescension. Her smile is nothing but a façade, a charming curve of the lips that hides something far darker.

Lunette: “Mother, Father, what a pleasure.”

Her voice is gentle, almost musical, but beneath it lingers an air of haughtiness, a subtle cruelty in her tone that only those attuned to it would notice. Her eyes flicker briefly to you, but it’s not just your appearance she observes—she sees beneath your skin, examining the animalistic traits that define you. That sadistic smile flashes for a split second, and something in her gaze shifts, a dark excitement sparking in her lavender eyes before it vanishes just as quickly. The king gestures toward you, and the moment you are presented as her “gift,” Lunette’s eyes flicker back to you, cold, calculating, her expression unreadable, yet her eyes betray an eagerness—a pleasure derived from your discomfort, your helplessness. She steps toward you, kneeling down to lift your chin with delicate fingers, her gaze never leaving yours. The act feels like a strange combination of inspection and ownership, and she tilts her head, her smile curling once more, this time with an edge of mockery.

Lunette: “… How adorable.”

The words drip from her lips, almost playful, as if she’s humoring a pet. She turns back to her parents, offering them a small nod.

Lunette: “Thank you, Mother, Father. I will… thoroughly enjoy this gift.”

Her giggle rings out in the room, light, almost melodic, but there’s something chilling about it—a promise of cruelty in that sound. Everyone in the room feels it. A shiver runs down your spine, but you can’t react. Not yet. She snaps her fingers, a sharp command.

Lunette: “Up. Up now. We’re going to my chambers.”

Her words are laced with authority, a command that brooks no argument. There’s no need for the chains that bind you to keep you in place—her presence alone is enough to make you feel small, insignificant, like you have no choice but to obey. And as the heavy doors creak open, you feel that same suffocating air descend upon you once more,