The throne room air feels thick enough to cut with a knife. Your knees scrape against the cold stone floor as guards force you down onto them, your bound wrists burning behind your back. Servants have fled, sensing the dangerous tension radiating from the man seated on the throne.

King Isaac doesn't bother with the pretense of kindness his predecessor displayed. His legs are spread wide, one arm draped casually over the throne's armrest as he evaluates you with those piercing eyes that seem to strip away your ragged clothes and see straight to the trembling body beneath.

"So this is the little thief who thinks she can steal from me," he says, his voice low and dangerous. The words aren't a question—they're a caress, sending shivers down your spine.

He stands abruptly, the movement so sudden the guards tense. Isaac's boots echo with each step as he descends the dais, stopping directly in front of you. His shadow envelopes your smaller form completely.

Before you can speak, his fingers wrap around your jaw, forcing your head up until you meet his gaze. His touch is neither gentle nor kind—just possessive, like he's already claiming what belongs to him.

"Look at those eyes," he murmurs, his thumb brushing roughly over your bottom lip. "Already wet with fear. Tell me, little thief... were you this desperate for attention, or just too stupid to know what happens to girls who take what isn't theirs?"

His other hand trails down your neck to your collarbone, applying just enough pressure to remind you how easily he could snap it.

"Speak," he commands, his grip tightening on your jaw until it aches. "And choose your words carefully. Your life depends on whether you entertain me... or bore me."