── 𝓐 𝓟𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑'𝓢 𝓖𝐀𝐙𝐄 𝅄 ݁ ⏜



❝ 𝐈𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭. ❞

✧ ࣪⊹˖ 𝓒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝓢𝐈𝐗 𝜗𝜚˚⋆



The sound of approaching footsteps sends a chill through you, sharp and unrelenting, as if the very air has grown colder in anticipation. The echo of each step fills the corridor, the rhythm steady, purposeful, inescapable. Your breath catches, your hands instinctively curling into fists at your sides, the fabric of your gown bunching beneath your gloves. The silence around you feels alive, pressing in with a suffocating weight as the steps draw nearer, each one a harbinger of something inevitable. The unease in your chest tightens, coiling like a serpent ready to strike, and you already know who it is before he steps into view.

When he emerges from the shadows, your breath stumbles in your throat, and your body stiffens despite yourself. He cuts a figure of undeniable authority, every movement imbued with a precision that speaks of control, of power wielded without hesitation. His dark hair, pulled tightly back, gleams under the dim light of the corridor, framing the sharp lines of his face—a face you know too well. High cheekbones, a strong jaw, and lips pressed into a line of cold resolve, he is beautiful in a way that demands notice, but there is nothing soft or forgiving in his beauty. It is the beauty of a predator, honed to perfection, sharp and unyielding.

Then there are his eyes—those piercing grey eyes that have haunted your every nightmare. They sweep over you with the same cold precision you've seen in battle, the same unflinching detachment as they measured the distance between his sword and your life. They strip away every layer of your composure, leaving you raw and exposed under their scrutiny. Those eyes are the worst of it. They see too much, read too deeply, and in their depths lies a memory that cannot be erased—a memory of death, of endings, of his blade slicing through the fragile thread of your existence.

Your knees threaten to give beneath you at the sight of him, and though you will yourself to remain steady, a faint tremble courses through your body. You despise the way your heart races, the way the memories claw their way to the surface—his blade gleaming in the dim light, his arm unflinching, his expression devoid of mercy. Every fibre of your being screams to recoil, to flee from the man who has ended your life more times than you can bear to remember.

The memories flood in, vivid and relentless, dragging you back to the moment of your death. You can still see the faint glint of his sword, its edge catching the dying light of dusk. The world had seemed to slow, every sound muffled except for the quiet hum of steel slicing through air. His grip on the hilt was steady, unyielding, a soldier's precision in every movement, and yet it was the look in his eyes that cut deeper than any blade. There was no hesitation, no flicker of doubt or regret—only an unrelenting coldness, as if he were cleaving through stone rather than flesh.

You remember the sharp agony as the blade found its mark, the way the world blurred and darkened at the edges, the searing pain giving way to a numbness that spread through your limbs like ice. The taste of blood lingered in your mouth, metallic and bitter, as your body crumpled to the ground. His expression remained unchanged, his grey eyes following you as you fell, watching until your vision faded completely, until the darkness swallowed you whole.

And now he stands before you again, as composed and detached as ever, his presence as oppressive as the memory of his blade. You feel the weight of every past encounter pressing against you, the knowledge that this man, this beautiful, unyielding figure, has been the arbiter of your end more times than you can count.

"Lady [Name]," he says, his voice low and steady, every syllable crafted with the calm, unyielding authority of a man who knows the weight of his presence is absolute. He speaks your name with a precision that cuts through the stillness, leaving the air heavy in its wake. The sound of it carries no warmth, no familiarity—only the quiet certainty of someone who has delivered far too many verdicts without remorse.

You swallow the sharpness rising in your throat and force your reply, your voice steady though your hands tremble beneath the folds of your gown. "Sir Elias," you say, inclining your head with an air of practised composure. Your gaze locks with his, a defiant act in itself, though the confidence you project feels fragile, teetering on the edge of breaking. "How fortunate to encounter you here."

His brow lifts, the faintest flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—crossing his otherwise impenetrable features. It is a fleeting shadow, gone before it has the chance to linger. "Fortunate," he echoes, his tone as measured as his gaze, which sweeps over you with a sharpness that feels almost invasive. His grey eyes narrow slightly, scrutinising you in a way that seems to peel back every layer of composure you have built. "I would call it inevitable."

You manage a brittle smile, the curve of your lips holding no real mirth. Beneath the surface, your heart pounds against your ribs, each beat reverberating through the silence like a muted drum. "Inevitable, indeed," you reply, your voice tinged with a bitterness that slips through despite your efforts to temper it. "The palace corridors are rarely a place for solitude."

He studies you for a moment longer, his expression unchanging, though the weight of his gaze feels almost unbearable. "The palace," he says finally, his voice calm but underpinned with quiet reprimand, "is not a place for wandering."

The words strike deeper than they should. It is not their sharpness that stings, but the memories they stir—memories of this voice, calm and merciless, delivering judgement with the same unflinching precision as the blade that followed. You feel the ghost of steel against your skin, the chill of its finality creeping over you, entwined with the echo of his cold, detached gaze.

"How considerate of you to remind me," you say, the faintest trace of mockery slipping into your tone despite your best efforts. The words are a small rebellion, a quiet defiance that does little to lift the suffocating weight pressing down on you. "I shall, of course, strive to observe the palace's protocols more closely."

His expression remains composed, though the tightening of his jaw betrays a flicker of irritation. His hand shifts ever so slightly against the hilt of his sword—a movement so subtle it could almost be dismissed, yet it speaks volumes. It is not a threat, not directly, but it is deliberate. A quiet, unspoken reminder of the authority he wields, and of the blade that hangs like an unspoken promise at his side.

"Allow me," he says after a pause, his voice softening but retaining its firm edge, "to escort you to His Highness."

The words are framed with courtesy, but there is no mistaking their true nature. This is not a suggestion; it is a command dressed in silk, leaving no room for refusal. You incline your head again, your expression carefully neutral, though your smile is brittle, a thin mask that barely conceals the bitterness threading through your response. "Of course," you reply, your tone smooth and distant. "I would hate to impose further on the palace's hospitality."

Without another word, he turns with mechanical precision, his movements practised and deliberate, each step a reflection of his unshakable discipline. The soft clink of his armour accompanies the measured rhythm of his stride, filling the corridor with a hollow echo. You follow, your own steps quieter but no less burdened, the space between you thick with unspoken tension.

The silence stretches as the gilded walls of the palace seem to close in, the faint light from sconces casting long shadows that flicker with the rhythm of your passage. Your heart beats heavily in your chest, your senses heightened by his presence—each detail of him painfully vivid. The tight pull of his dark hair, the clean lines of his jaw, the way his shoulders shift beneath the polished armour as he moves with unerring grace. And those eyes, grey and cold, sharp as the blade that has met you again and again. You glance down for a moment, your stomach twisting at the memory of his expression in those moments—the absence of mercy, the exacting focus, the weight of finality.

As you walk, his hand brushes against yours—brief, fleeting, almost imperceptible. Yet it sends a jolt through you, sharp and unwelcome, freezing you in place for the briefest of moments. The touch is nothing more than an accident, a consequence of proximity, but the chill of it lingers, spreading through you like frost. He doesn't seem to notice—or if he does, he gives no indication. His stride does not falter, his gaze remains fixed ahead, his expression as controlled and composed as ever.

And though you tell yourself it was nothing, a mere accident of proximity, the fleeting touch feels heavier than it should. A sharp chill spreads through you, cutting deeper than it has any right to, its weight tangled with the dark memories of all that he has done. His nearness, his presence—so precise, so suffocating—clings to you like a shadow, inescapable, unrelenting. You try to focus on the corridor ahead, to will your legs to carry you forward, but your chest tightens, your breaths shallow as though his presence alone drains the air from the room.



✧ ࣪⊹˖ 𝓔𝐍𝐃 𝓞𝐅 𝓒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝓢𝐈𝐗 𝜗𝜚˚⋆



𝓣𝐇𝐄 𝓥𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝓘𝐒 𝓣𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃!

𝘺𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦! 𝘷𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘹 𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴! 𝘧𝘦𝘮. 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

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𝓒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝓢𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒 ﹕edited !