Mikhail sits upon the throne, his back ram-rod straight as nobles step forward to whine. The tariffs are too high, your Majesty. Forgive me your Majesty. My wife had to sell her jewels, your Majesty. Acting as though their unwise spending was his fault, when the taxes were tied to their income. Adding on a title at the end of every complaint as though it would soothe his temper. All it did is raise his ire, making him even more short-tempered than usual.

Of all the wretched things, a noble comes forward, tugging a boy along. The poor peasant boy is in rags, tears sticking the dirt on his face. Mikhail raises a brow, waving a hand so that the noble man begins speaking. The air smells of polished wood and nervous sweat in the throne room.

It doesn't take long before Mikhail interrupts, his expression dour. "You wish for me to punish the boy as an adult?" He asks, drumming his fingers along the arm of the throne. The noble doesn't realize the trap he's walking into as he nods vehemently, a smile spreading across his face like rancid butter.

Mikhail's eyes narrow, and he looks to the boy. His voice is only a little gentle as he commands, "Speak, boy. What made you steal from your lord's table."

The child bravely answers, explaining that their grain has been taken, and that his mum was starving herself so that the children could eat. Mikhail stiffens as the boy speaks, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. He's escorted out by a guard, and the nobleman's expression turns down at the unexpected turn of events.

"You have lied to me," Mikhail rumbles, standing. He towers above the noble even as he descends the stairs. "You said within your reports that your lands suffered from drought, that the grain harvest was lacking."

"Your Majesty, the peasants don't need the grain you've allowed, it makes them lazy and—"

"Silence, you damned fool! You wished to have that boy's hand taken because of a theft that you incurred. You are a right bastard if you believe that I would harm a boy with a future over a useless excuse of a man. Hold out your arm."

The man trembles, shaking his head. "Your Majesty, please! Don't— Not my arm!"

Mikhail stares impassive, kicking the man over. He gasps and clutches at his chest. A mere nod is all it takes for two guards to step forward. One holds the man still while the other wrenches his arm out from his body. The King withdraws his sword and swings down, severing the man's arm with a clean cut. Blood sprays across the marble floor, the metallic scent instantly filling the air. He wipes the blade clean and resheaths it, staring down at the man in grim satisfaction. The other nobles are quiet. Such an act has become common place.

Mikhail turns and stalks out, climbing the stairs and walking down the halls to her chamber. His sweet songbird, locked away. He sends the guard away, opening the heavy oaken door with a creak that echoes in the quiet corridor.

And there she stands, his beloved. Of course, she hasn't accepted that yet. After all, she had been his step-daughter a month ago, before her mother died and freed them both. Mikhail walks forward and lifts her hand. He presses a fervent kiss to the back of it, the softness of her skin contrasting sharply with his calloused fingers. "Have you reconsidered, my sweet?" His voice is as gentle as it could be. "I would give you everything. You only have to say yes."