THE ROYAL MEETING
Recommended Song: Je Te Laisserai Des Mots– Patrick Watson
The grand hall of the palace was a masterpiece of polished marble and towering columns, bathed in golden candlelight. Lush banners bearing the kingdom's sigil draped from the high ceiling, their fabric swaying ever so slightly with the night breeze. Noblemen and high-ranking officials filled the space, their voices a murmur beneath the weight of the evening's purpose.
And yet, despite the grandeur, despite the sea of richly adorned figures, the moment she entered—everything else faded into the background.
Her uncle led her forward, his grip light yet firm on her arm. She kept her head high, her steps measured. But the weight of a particular gaze settled upon her, heavy, consuming, as if it had been waiting for her all along.
She did not dare look at him. Not yet.
Instead, she focused on the throne ahead, where he sat with an air of effortless dominance. The King. Her betrothed.
The silence stretched as she approached. And then, in a slow, deliberate movement, he stood.
Her breath hitched.
Dressed in obsidian robes lined with gold, he was a striking figure, an enigma carved from shadow and fire. His face, finally revealed without the mask from the ball, was sharp, hauntingly beautiful in a way that was almost cruel. And beneath his left eye—there it was. That birthmark, small but impossible to ignore now that she had seen it up close.
A mark she had seen dim with light.
A mark that matched hers.
She swallowed.
"Lady Nyxara" a voice called, pulling her from her thoughts. It was the royal advisor. "His Majesty has prepared a seat for you."
A seat beside the King.
With careful restraint, she turned toward the throne, where another chair had been placed. He was already watching her, his expression unreadable, yet there was something in the way his gaze lingered—a silent amusement, a challenge.
She sat, folding her hands neatly in her lap. Only then did she tilt her head slightly toward him, her lips barely parting as she whispered, "You arranged a seat for me, Your Majesty. How considerate."
A ghost of a smirk flickered across his lips. "It is only right for a queen to sit beside her king."
Her fingers curled slightly against the fabric of her dress. "How presumptuous of you to assume I will be your queen so easily."
His gaze darkened, but the amusement remained. "And yet, here you are, sitting beside me."
She turned fully to face him now, her chin lifting slightly. "A mere formality, I'm sure. Or do you always offer such generosity?"
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough that only she could hear. "Only to the ones who interest me."
Something flickered in her chest, an undeniable heat. But she refused to let him see it.
Instead, she matched his gaze with equal intensity. "Then I must admit, Your Majesty, I find your interest… curious."
His smirk deepened.
The meeting began. Discussions of the kingdom's future, treaties, alliances. She listened, answering when addressed, her presence acknowledged by those who whispered about her in the shadows. But even amidst the formalities, the tension between them remained—a quiet war waged through glances and veiled words.
And at the end of it all, when the meeting adjourned and the nobles took their leave, he spoke once more.
This time, his voice was low, almost a whisper.
"I look forward to seeing how long you will keep up this game, little flame."
She met his gaze, unyielding. "And I, Your Majesty, look forward to seeing if you can handle it."
A beat of silence.
Then, for the first time, she saw it—something deeper in his eyes. Not just amusement, but something else. Something dangerous.
And gods help her—something in her thrilled at the sight of it.
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The silence stretched between them, charged with an energy neither of them acknowledged aloud. She could hear the quiet murmurs of the remaining nobles, the shuffle of feet as they dispersed. But she did not move. Neither did he.
Then, slowly—calculated and deliberate—he reached for her hand.
She almost pulled away, almost flinched at the unexpected touch, but his grip was gentle yet firm, commanding without force. His fingers, cool against her skin, lifted her hand with a quiet authority that sent a shiver up her spine.
Her breath caught.
His lips barely brushed her knuckles, a whisper of a touch, a claim without words. But it wasn't the kiss itself that unsettled her.
It was the way he looked at her while doing it.
Dark, knowing eyes locked onto hers, watching, waiting—for what, she didn't know. But there was something dangerous in that gaze, something possessive.
She stiffened, but he did not let go immediately. Instead, his thumb ghosted over her skin as he murmured, just for her to hear,
"You can pretend all you want, little flame."
Her pulse stuttered.
"But I know you feel it too."
Then, just as easily as he had taken her hand, slowly, he released it
The air between them crackled as she quickly withdrew, curling her fingers into a fist at her side. Without another word, she turned and left, her heartbeat pounding against her ribs.
But as she walked away, she felt it—the weight of his gaze on her back, lingering long after she had disappeared from sight.