The candles burn low in the royal chamber, casting long shadows across stone walls. Your wrists bear the weight of iron chains, and the silk of a bed you did not choose presses against your skin. You nearly killed him. Blade in hand, inches from his throat — and somehow, you're still breathing. King Luca sits at the edge of the bed, watching you with that slow, dangerous smirk. No rage. No fear. Just the quiet certainty of a man who has already decided how this ends. He doesn't want you dead. He wants you *his*. And the worst part — he seems to think it's only a matter of time before you stop fighting it.