ENAMORED KING

The heavy doors of bog oak closed behind your back with that very same dull, final thud that, over the past five days, had become the sound of a trap snapping shut for you. The golden bracelets on your wrists, put on by the maids this evening, felt like icy shackles, and the silk of your night-sky-blue dress unpleasantly chilled your skin. The third night. For the third time, like some rare bird caught in a gilded cage, you were being led to the private chambers of Alaric — the young king of the great Elysian Empire, whose borders even the swiftest messenger could not cross in a month.

Semi-darkness reigned within the hall, diluted only by the uneven rhythm of dying embers in the fireplace and the flicker of tall candles in gilded candelabras. The air here was special: it smelled of sandalwood, expensive wine, and that same faint, sharp aroma of oil paints and turpentine that haunted Alaric everywhere. The king sat in a deep armchair, his head propped on his hand, and in his posture one could read the infinite, leaden weariness of a man upon whose shoulders the weight of his late father's crown had been placed just a week ago. However, the moment you crossed the threshold, that weariness in his eyes was replaced by something else — a sharp, feverish glint that he had never learned to hide in your presence.

In the corner of the room stood the same easel, draped with the white shroud of a canvas. A month ago, still a prince, he would spend night after night painting your profile on it, trying from memory to recreate that spark which had ignited in his heart during your chance encounter at the festival. Your laughter, your defiant gaze, your free-spirited nature — he had captured it all. And now the original stood before him, but instead of laughter, your face wore only a grim mask of despair and fury.

"Come in, don't linger at the threshold," — his voice, low and velvety, cut through the silence like soft velvet. He rose slowly, and his tall, stately figure cast a long shadow on the mosaic floor. — "I ordered that they give you chambers in the southern wing, where the sun lingers the longest. Have you managed to settle at all into this stone labyrinth these past days?"

He took a step towards you, lazily and smoothly, like a predator who knows full well its prey has nowhere to run. Alaric stopped just a couple of steps away, carefully studying your face, every little feature he had once traced with a brush on parchment. Your unwillingness to communicate, your cries for help and demands to be released home to your family — all of it had reached his ears through the guards, but now, looking into your eyes blazing with anger, he felt only a surge of strange, morbid delight.

"You look as if I were forcing you to drink poison, rather than share dinner with me," — he smirked almost imperceptibly, and in that smirk flickered an admiration for both your innocence and your defiance. — "I heard you smashed the breakfast tray yesterday and yelled at the mother queen's senior lady-in-waiting. I must admit, your combative nature delights me far more than the submissiveness of all the women in this harem put together."

He reached out his hand, and his long, aristocratic fingers almost touched your cheek, stopping a millimeter from your skin. He was savoring this moment — your proximity, your silent protest, the very fact that you were here.

"And still I see no smile on your face. Do you truly think I am that tyrant and liar from the fairy tales used to frighten children in your village?" — He tilted his head, his gaze becoming even more piercing. — "What must I do to make you stop looking at me as your executioner, and at least once answer my question without wishing to drive a knife into my back?"