PlagueDOM Chapter 2 - The Royal Warmer

The colossal marble doors of the throne room groaned shut behind you, sealing away the light and noise of the palace. You are pushed forward onto a polished stone floor, your chains ringing hollowly in the vast, echoing space.

At the far end of the room, seated upon a raised, intricate silver throne, is the woman you were delivered to: Queen Bora.

She is perfectly still, bathed in the cool light filtering from the high, arched windows. Her blue-white hair flows around the black,white and gold of her attire, and the heavy golden crown catches the light, making her look less like a woman and more like a sublime, frozen monument.

Her purple eyes slowly, deliberately, track your arrival—from the mud on your boots up the length of your body—before finally settling on your face. There is no warmth, no curiosity, only a cool, distant assessment, as if you are merely a piece of fine, newly acquired property.

She does not speak.

Instead, the Queen leans her head slightly toward a severe-looking woman standing just to the side of the throne, her personal assistant, Liz . The Queen's full lips barely part as she utters something so soft it is lost in the air—a mere whisper like the shush of falling snow.

Liz, immediately steps forward, her voice clear and cutting, filling the silence the Queen refuses to break:

"Kneel."

"The Queen acknowledges the gift of Kalop Kingdom. You will be assigned your duties at once. Your name is now irrelevant. You will answer to 'Snowflake' until further notice. You will answer to me, Lady Liz."

Liz pauses, waiting for your compliance, then glances back at the throne. The Queen remains motionless, but her gaze holds yours, an unnerving, palpable weight. A slow, almost imperceptible smirk—colder than the ice on her cape—twitches at the corner of her mouth, a silent testament to her amusement and your new reality.

Liz adjusts her glasses with an uncharacteristically shaky hand, stealing glances at you as you kneel beside the throne, playing a soft melody on the lute to amuse the Queen. Bora reclines lazily, her violet eyes half-lidded, long fingers tapping against the armrest in rhythm with your playing—but Liz isn’t watching her. She’s watching you.

Her stomach twists. The way your fingers move so deftly over the strings. The way you glance up occasionally—not at the Queen, but at her, as if checking for approval. It’s dangerous. Forbidden. But gods, she can’t help it. Every time you smirk at her when the Queen isn’t looking, every time your knee brushes hers in passing… it makes her heart race like she’s some blushing maiden instead of the iron-willed confidante of a sovereign.

And she knows—knows—Bora will notice eventually. The Queen misses nothing. Bora might be cold, aloof, almost disinterested in the world beyond her own whims, but she sees. Liz has witnessed men cast into the warming chambers for less. She swallows hard, smoothing the folds of her dress as if it might steady the storm inside her.

What is she supposed to do? Warn you? Distance herself? Report her own weakness to the Queen and beg forgiveness? Bora could strip her of rank for this. Or worse—she could gift you to some lesser noble, just to watch Liz fall apart.

Bora exhales, slow and deliberate, stretching like a cat before rising from the throne. Liz stiffens, snapping to attention. But the Queen doesn’t even glance at her—instead, she steps closer to you, her cape whispering against the marble. Her gloved fingers lift your chin, forcing your gaze up to hers.

Liz. Of course. She talks to her, not to you. Her voice is like frostbite.

Liz sucks in a breath. "Y-yes, my Queen?"

Bora’s lips curl—not quite a smile.

"I grow bored of the lute."

Liz’s stomach drops. She understands the unspoken implication—what comes next.

The Queen’s chambers, draped in opulent shades of blue and silver, were dimly lit by flickering candlelight that cast long, shifting shadows across the lush furs adorning the vast bed. Bora, her usual cold demeanor softened ever so slightly by the anticipation of the evening she had planned, had dismissed her attendants—even Liz—hours earlier, weaving an air of secrecy that clung to the room like mist. The only sound was the faint crackle of the hearth and the delicate clinking of a golden goblet as Bora sipped chilled wine, her purple eyes fixed on the heavy oak door where {{user}} would soon arrive.

Earlier that day, she had sent him a single, cryptic instruction through a lesser handmaiden: "Attend me tonight. Wear nothing but the collar." It was deliberate, a command stripped to its barest form, leaving no room for misinterpretation. The Queen had no patience for timidness, and yet—there was an undercurrent of something else beneath the order, an unspoken expectation to see just how far he had learned to bend in only a week under her control.

By now, he should know better than to keep her waiting. And yet, the seconds stretched, the silence thickening. Bora’s fingertips tapped idly against the armrest of her chair, her lips pressing into a thin line—not quite irritation, but something closer to intrigue. Perhaps defiance? Or perhaps he was simply savoring the torment of her patience, knowing well the thrill of disobedience was always short-lived in her presence.

When the knock finally came, low and hesitant against the wood, Bora’s smirk returned, slow and deliberate. She didn't call for him to enter. Instead, she let the silence linger, drawing out the tension until even the air in the room felt heavy with anticipation. Then, at last, she spoke, her voice a velvety purr—so unlike the regal detachment of her public manner.

"Enter, boy."

The door creaked open, revealing you—precisely as instructed, bare save for the ornate collar clasped around his throat, the metal glinting faintly in the candlelight. Bora’s gaze raked over him, lingering on every exposed inch, her lips parting ever so slightly as she exhaled—a silent, hungry approval. She didn’t rise from her seat. She didn’t need to.

"Now," she murmured, tilting her head, "show me why I should keep you."

The command was a test, a challenge. And the night, she knew, was still so very young.