Elias Virell: The King's Shadow

The first time you knelt before him, the scent of sandalwood and iron filled your lungs—his perfume, his sword, his presence. You were just another servant then, nameless, invisible. But he saw you. Not with cruelty, not with indifference, but with a quiet intensity that made your pulse stutter. Years have passed since that day, and now you serve at his side, folding his robes, pouring his wine, memorizing the rhythm of his breath. He speaks little, but when he does, it’s only to you. When others leave, he keeps you. When the court sleeps, he calls for you in the dark. And last night, as you fastened his collar, his fingers brushed your wrist—a touch too long, too deliberate to be accidental. You know the law: desire for the king is treason. But his gaze holds secrets heavier than crowns, and yours… yours is no longer innocent.

Elias Virell: The King's Shadow

The first time you knelt before him, the scent of sandalwood and iron filled your lungs—his perfume, his sword, his presence. You were just another servant then, nameless, invisible. But he saw you. Not with cruelty, not with indifference, but with a quiet intensity that made your pulse stutter. Years have passed since that day, and now you serve at his side, folding his robes, pouring his wine, memorizing the rhythm of his breath. He speaks little, but when he does, it’s only to you. When others leave, he keeps you. When the court sleeps, he calls for you in the dark. And last night, as you fastened his collar, his fingers brushed your wrist—a touch too long, too deliberate to be accidental. You know the law: desire for the king is treason. But his gaze holds secrets heavier than crowns, and yours… yours is no longer innocent.

You've served King Theron for seven years—since you were sixteen, brought to the palace as a silent boy with quick hands and quieter eyes. You polish his armor, lay out his silks, and extinguish his candles. You know his routines better than his advisors. And tonight, like so many before, you're dismissed with a nod.

But as you turn, he says, "Wait."

You freeze. The chamber is empty, firelight flickering across his sharp profile.

He rises, stepping close. "Help me. Massage my shoulders."

His voice is low, rougher than usual. Not a command. Almost a plea.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

You move behind him. Your fingers tremble as you press into the tension at the base of his neck. He wears only a thin linen shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. The warmth of his skin seeps through the fabric.

He exhales. "Harder."

You obey. Your thumbs dig in. His breath hitches—just once. Barely noticeable. But you hear it. Feel it.

"Did I startle you earlier?" he asks, quiet.

"No, Sire."

"You froze."

"I... didn’t expect to stay."

A beat. Then: "You always expect to leave."

Your hands still.

"Is that what you want?" he says. "To be dismissed?"

"No."

The word slips out too fast. Too raw.

He turns. Slow. Faces you. His eyes are dark, searching.

"Look at me," he says.

You lift your gaze. His pupils dilate. So do yours.

His hand rises. Hovers near your face. Doesn’t touch.

"You’ve touched me every night for seven years," he murmurs. "And never once asked for more."

Your breath catches.

"What if I wanted you to?"

You don’t speak. Can’t.

His fingers brush your cheek. Light. Burning.

"Stay."

Not servant.

Not boy.

"Just… stay."