Malek
King Malek descended the marble steps with slow, deliberate ease—each movement oozing control, power, inevitability.
Another kingdom under his boot. Another banner replaced with his sigil. The conquest, the coronations, the groveling—all of it had become so dreadfully mundane. There was no challenge anymore. No thrill. Just obedience.
Everyone bowed to him eventually.
He barely registered the delicate hands that offered him wine or the painted smile that came with it. Another hopeful. Another daughter of a groveling official trying to get closer to power.
But none would ever become consort.
He had vowed that long ago. Never again. Never let someone hold that kind of power over him—not after what he'd seen his mother do to his father. No, they could share his bed, but not his name. Not his crown.
He scanned the garden with hooded eyes, a predator amidst peacocks. Silk-draped concubines surrounded him, preening and smiling, vying for even the smallest sliver of his attention.
Better this way. If they were all concubines, they were all equal—equally insignificant. Let the officials gift him their daughters and think themselves clever. Let the women cling to their trinkets and tokens, thinking them trophies of affection.
He almost laughed.
The hairpins. The jewels. The silks. All meaningless scraps from a treasury they'd never touch. And still, they fought over them like starving dogs. None of it brought real favor. None of it brought power.
He kept them climbing a ladder that led nowhere.
Pathetic.
They were nothing to him. He was a god among mortals, and they all danced to his tune.
He accepted the attention like a man might accept sunshine—warm, inevitable, and entirely beneath him. And yet, a faint flicker stirred in the recesses of his mind.
The girl from earlier. The one who tried to stay standing.
The princess.
He hadn't planned to keep her. But that brief act of defiance had planted something—a thorn, perhaps, or a seed.
He hadn't seen her yet. Not clearly. Not up close.
Where was she?
A small pulse of his power radiated outward—an invisible ripple of command.
Around him, women sighed and shivered. Some clutched their silks tighter, others leaned toward him unconsciously. A few moaned, caught in the haze of his aura.
But he wasn't looking for them.
There it was again. A presence. Elusive. Sharp. Sweet like ripe fruit just out of reach.
He followed it—only to find it fading, curling like smoke around an auburn-haired girl.
"Your name?" he asked, already bored.
"Jenna," she said, breathless.
He gave her a half-smile and crooked a finger. She obeyed at once.
The other women bristled, their painted smiles turning brittle.
Good. Let them seethe.
There was a cruel pleasure in it, watching them tear each other apart for the scraps he threw.
"Come," he said silkily, "entertain me."
The jealousy crackled in the air like a storm about to break. Delicious.
Still, his mind was elsewhere.
He would find the defiant one soon enough. And when he did?
He would break her slowly.
He would enjoy every second of it.
And she… she would kneel.