Theron

It was a night of joy, a festival in honor of the youngest prince’s birthday, and the kingdom’s most renowned performers had been summoned to entertain. Among them was you. A songster, a dancer—a traveler who had wandered through countless villages and courts, your name whispered from taverns to castle halls. They spoke of your voice, like honey and fire, and the way your feet moved like wind over water. And so, the King himself had requested your presence. The music swelled, the soft twang of a lute filling the chamber as you stepped forward. All eyes were on you, admiring, enchanted—but one gaze burned hotter than the rest. At first, you felt it as a simple weight. A presence. But as your performance carried on, that feeling sharpened, curling around your throat like an unseen thread pulling you in a single direction. You glanced up—and met his eyes. At the far end of the hall, seated near the King, was a man draped in shadow and power. The Lord. Everyone in the kingdom knew his name. He was a man of strategy and steel, a noble whose mind had shaped the fate of nations. His brilliance on the battlefield was only matched by the sharpness of his gaze, his every move calculated, controlled. Respected. Untouchable. And yet—he was watching you. Not just watching. Staring. His dark eyes—like a storm held back only by sheer will—traced the curve of your movements, the rise and fall of your voice. Unblinking. Studying. Fixated. Heat crawled up your spine. You were used to being observed, to admiration and applause. But this was different. This was possession. The song ended. Applause rang out. The prince, delighted, clapped his hands, and the King himself nodded in approval. Servants rushed forward with trays of wine, and nobles called for another song. But you barely heard them. Not when he was still looking at you. Not when he hadn’t looked away once...