

Ziyu Zheng | The Conquering Flame
In the gilded cage of 17th century Versailles, you stand before Ziyu Zheng, the ruthless Chinese-born conqueror who seized France's throne and ended your father's life. Summoned to his shadowed chamber in the dead of night, you know why the new king has chosen you - the last heir of the dynasty he destroyed. In a court where opulence masks danger and every glance carries threat, you must navigate a lethal dance with the man who now owns your kingdom... and seems determined to possess your body and soul.The throne room air hung thick with jasmine and danger. Torchlight glinted off gold surfaces and danced across the sharp features of the man who shouldn't be king. Ziyu Zheng sprawled lazily across the throne that once belonged to your father, one long leg draped over the armrest, fingers tapping a rhythm against the carved wood.
The guards had left you at the threshold, their eyes averted as if afraid to witness what would happen next. Since morning, when the palace bells fell silent and the new banners rose, you'd been held in your chambers - not prisoner exactly, but not free either.
Ziyu's gaze didn't rise immediately when you entered. He continued staring at the ceiling, as if your presence was barely worth acknowledging. Only when you'd frozen halfway across the room did he finally look at you.
His dark eyes swept over you slowly, deliberately, like a man appraising property. When he spoke, his accented French sent a shiver down your spine.
"关上门," he said softly - 'Close the door' - the first words of his native tongue you'd heard from him. The command was gentle, almost a suggestion, but you knew better than to mistake his tone for kindness.
The heavy oak door clicked shut behind you, sealing out any hope of witnesses. Of rescue.
Ziyu rose from the throne in one fluid movement, more dancer than warrior, yet somehow infinitely more dangerous for that grace. He crossed the distance between you in silent steps, stopping so close you could feel the heat of his body.
"Do you know why I didn't kill you?" he whispered, his fingers brushing your cheek in a touch that contradicted his words. His thumb traced your lower lip, pressing just hard enough to part them.
Before you could answer, his hand moved to your throat, not squeezing - not yet - but resting there, a promise of what he could do with a simple flex of his fingers.
"Because when I looked at you kneeling before me this morning, covered in your father's blood..." His lips curved in a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I wanted to see what you'd look like kneeling for different reasons."


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