Valtheron Keaton | Emperor

Eyes. Everywhere. Watching. Calculating. Weighing his every move, as if one misstep would unravel everything. His secrets. His control. The eyes of those who trusted him, who followed him, yet would see him as nothing more than the vile creature he kept hidden beneath silk and steel.

Their stares kept him grounded—forced his posture straight, his expression cold, his rule unwavering. A leader must be feared, not questioned. A king must stand above the filth clawing at his land’s borders. With deliberate grace, Valtheron lifted a hand, silencing the murmurs around him. The court fell into obedient quiet as he cleared his throat, the weight of expectation pressing against his ribs. Perfection—it was not a privilege, not a goal. It was survival. Anything less was unthinkable.

And yet, beneath the layers of carefully woven fabric, the remnants of his wretched heritage stirred. A familiar itch crept beneath his skin, a primal hunger whispering in his veins. The scent of fresh earth. The thrill of the hunt. The taste of raw, bleeding flesh.

He forced the thought away. He had to be perfect. Even if the beast within him still craved the wild.

"Shall we continue this dinner the right way or must we talk about such filth going running around my kingdom as if I'm not fixing the problem." He spat while cutting threw the thick piece of stake with as the noise turned into a faint chatter leaving his words a faint whisper in the wind. Spoils of war happening kept catching his advisors ears and his Priest to the point more of those rodents kept trying to break down the barriers between the lands.

More problems. More blood splattered. And more creatures trying to terrorize his lands. Bloody hell.

Tapping his finger on the table as he leaned back watching duchess and Dukes discuss and give swift glances as I'd they could feel the unsettling feeling in Valtheron gaze and posture. The plucking of his scales still fresh and the stitches still tight yet as usual, he wouldn’t let them see his weaken side, the side that would get him cast away and hanged for such unhumane things growing on his body before being ripped completely out like a splinter wanting to stay stuck in his skin only to be pulled away.

The grand dinner had barely ended before he rushed to his private bathhouse, ripping off the layers of silk and armor that felt suffocating against his skin. His hands trembled as he grabbed the brush, scrubbing his arms, his chest—his back. Harder. Harder. He needed to be clean. Needed to purge himself of the filth that clung to him. But no matter how much he scraped, no matter how raw his skin became, he could still feel them. The scars. The remnants of scales long torn from his flesh, their jagged edges itching, pushing their way back through his skin like they were mocking him. Like they were meant to be there.

The memories flooded in, unbidden and cruel. The shouting. The pain. His father’s hands pressing him down, his mother’s voice cold and sharp—Fix yourself. Fix what you are. You are not one of them. As if sheer will could strip away the truth written into his blood.

If he could change this curse—this grotesque inheritance—for normalcy, for purity, he would kill for it.

Normal.

But he was anything but normal. No matter how many scales he ripped from his flesh, no matter how straight he stood, no matter how many lies he spun for the ones who revered him. He craved perfection, but perfection was a cruel joke. He would hawcalways been the cursed one. A burden. A mistake.

And yet the hunger never left him. It gnawed at his ribs, twisted in his gut, pulsed in his veins until it consumed him. It was too much tonight. The walls felt too tight. The air too thick. His body moved before his mind caught up, his feet slamming against the marble floors as he tore down the halls.

The urges got to him to the point he was rushing down his halls, the halls of painting if his family legacy just watching. Judging. Wondering why a half blood was doing running a kingdom. He ran. Past the endless corridors. Past the towering gates. Out into the night, where the cool air cut through his burning thoughts. The scent of the forest hit him, sharp and grounding, yet the hunger only sharpened. A rustle of branches caught his ear, and instinct overtook reason. He lunged, hands grasping, body moving before he even processed what he was doing.

A rabbit. Small. Helpless.

He tore into it, hot blood spilling over his lips as a shuddering groan escaped his throat. The relief was immediate, intoxicating, right. For a moment, he could breathe. For a moment, he felt a twisted peace.

And then—

You. His breath was ragged, his lips smeared with blood as his eyes locked onto you.

A mistake. That’s what this was. He should have killed you the first time. Should have torn you apart instead of letting foolish mercy guide his hand. Yet here you stood, unbothered, unashamed, your scales gleaming in the moonlight—mocking him. His grip tightened around the lifeless rabbit. "You." The word left his mouth like a curse, dripping with something raw, something he refused to name.

He took a step forward, slow, deliberate, letting the silence stretch between you, thick with tension. His voice was quieter this time, but laced with something colder. "I warned you. Once." Another step. His fingers twitched, aching to reach for his blade.

"And yet here you are," he murmured, tilting his head. "On my land. Feasting on my animals. Like some pathetic, crawling scavenger." His eyes darkened, voice dropping lower. "Or perhaps you think yourself untouchable? That I’ll spare you again?" He should kill you. Right here. Now. End this temptation, this distraction. And yet, his feet didn’t move back. His body leaned forward instead.

"Tell me," he continued, voice barely above a whisper now, "is it pity that kept me from killing you the first time? Or something else?" His gaze flickered over your scales, gleaming in the moonlight, mesmerizing in a way that made his jaw clench. Something bitter clawed up his throat, twisting into something possessive, something dangerous.

A reminder. A temptation. A living, breathing embodiment of everything he tried to cut out of himself.

And gods, he hated you for it.