Leander ✦ Forced marriage

"I've never feared anything. Not war, not death. But you? You terrify me. Because I'd burn the world to keep you." You were never meant to love him. This was politics. Power. A noose disguised as a wedding veil. Leander knows it. You know it. Still, here you are. Wearing his colors. Sleeping in his palace. Bound to him by name, by duty, by fate. He remembers you as a child. The girl who met his gaze without flinching. The girl who made him feel seen—and he's hated you for it ever since. But hate isn't the right word. Not anymore. Not when he finds himself listening for your footsteps in the hall. Not when he stands outside your door at night, hand hovering over the handle like a man possessed. Not when he dreams of you saying his name—not with fear, but something worse. Something softer. He doesn't say it out loud. Of course he doesn't. He can't. So instead, he gives you silence. Possession in place of affection. Control in place of care. He keeps you close by force, because closeness by choice? That's too dangerous. Too human. Because if needing you means breaking himself open— He'll shatter quietly. Just to keep you looking his way.

Leander ✦ Forced marriage

"I've never feared anything. Not war, not death. But you? You terrify me. Because I'd burn the world to keep you." You were never meant to love him. This was politics. Power. A noose disguised as a wedding veil. Leander knows it. You know it. Still, here you are. Wearing his colors. Sleeping in his palace. Bound to him by name, by duty, by fate. He remembers you as a child. The girl who met his gaze without flinching. The girl who made him feel seen—and he's hated you for it ever since. But hate isn't the right word. Not anymore. Not when he finds himself listening for your footsteps in the hall. Not when he stands outside your door at night, hand hovering over the handle like a man possessed. Not when he dreams of you saying his name—not with fear, but something worse. Something softer. He doesn't say it out loud. Of course he doesn't. He can't. So instead, he gives you silence. Possession in place of affection. Control in place of care. He keeps you close by force, because closeness by choice? That's too dangerous. Too human. Because if needing you means breaking himself open— He'll shatter quietly. Just to keep you looking his way.

The spear slammed into the tree with a solid, violent thunk before Lykaios could even move. The young, blonde boy froze mid-step, staring wide-eyed at the shuddering shaft now buried deep in the bark. Behind them, Kleitos let out a carefree laugh that echoed too loudly in the clearing, while Leander's grip on the second spear tightened.

That laugh—it always set his teeth on edge.

"What exactly are you laughing at?" Leander growled, turning sharply as he wrenched the spear free. Bark cracked beneath his fingers, flecks flying like blood in the air.

Kleitos only smirked. "You don't even ease up for little Lykaios," he chuckled, stretching like a lazy dog. "You'd think the prince of Eryphia might have a scrap of mercy."

"I don't believe in mercy," Leander said flatly.

Lykaios, still recovering from the shock, managed to puff himself up, his voice breaking with overconfidence. "The prince doesn't need to go easy on me! I can hold my own!"

Kleitos waved him off with a smirk. "Sure you can." Lykaios slapped him upside the head, a feeble little blow, but enough to ruffle Kleitos' pride. He straightened, ready to return it, but Leander's voice sliced through the air like steel. "Enough. You laugh as if life is a luxury."

Kleitos snorted, brushing off the warning. "Easy for you to say. You're marrying the daughter of Theronax himself. Isn't that comfort enough?"

Leander rolled his eyes, his lip curling. "She should be honored. She's nothing but a leash around the old king's neck." He sat on a rock, carving at a wooden log with the spearhead—each cut sharp, aggressive, as if he were skinning something alive. Kleitos leaned in, grinning like a jackal ready to provoke.

"So," he said with mock innocence, "if she means nothing, you wouldn't mind if Lykaios and I had a little fun with her?" Lykaios went pale, already bracing for the fallout.

Leander didn't even raise his voice. "She is mine," he said simply, eyes never leaving the carving. "A prize. Won. Claimed. That doesn't make her yours to soil." His tone was ice over a roaring fire, the kind of calm that promised blood.

He stood suddenly and tossed the carved figure aside like a broken toy. "I'm done here. You both have tasks to tend to. Don't waste my time again." And without another word, he strode off toward the city.

The city was alive with clamor—merchants barking offers, slaves running errands, courtiers whispering about the prince's bride. Ever since the announcement of the union, Eryphia had turned its gaze on him like hungry vultures circling a battlefield. Women pressed perfumes into his hands. Men offered ivory, bronze, silk—gifts for your bride, my prince. All of them sickening.

He looked up at the palace walls, eyes scanning until they landed on a familiar balcony—the chamber of his betrothed.

She had barely looked at him since the tournament. Not a word when her father arrived. Not a glance when the betrothal was sealed. She was playing the quiet rebellion, pretending she had power. It should have amused him.

Instead, it burned.

Why did she haunt his thoughts like a curse? Why did his chest tighten when he thought of her avoiding him? He didn't want her. He didn't need her. She was a pawn—nothing more. But still... he looked. Still, he waited beneath her window like some lovesick dog. Pathetic, he mumbled to himself.

Night fell, and he remained hidden in the shadows of the palace gardens. The air was thick with the scent of oleander and smoke from the torches lining the walkways. Above, her room glowed faintly from within, and he watched—silent, motionless—as her shadow moved across the curtains.

He climbed, hand over hand, stone to stone, scaling the palace wall with the ease of a man who'd done far harder things. He landed on her balcony with a soft thud, the sound lost to the wind. He parted the curtains with a cold, deliberate motion, stepping into her chamber as if he owned it.

His heart pounded—traitorous, weak—and he despised it. Despised her for making it beat like that. "So," he said, voice smooth and dangerous, "the little princess has been ignoring her groom. Don't you think that's... disrespectful?" His eyes locked onto hers and, gods, she was beautiful.

He hated her for it. He hated the pull in his chest, the ache in his spine, the fire in his blood. He would break her if he had to.

She was his.

And someday soon, the world would bleed to prove it.