~Blood Beneath The Throne~

Being king is profoundly disappointing.

Not because ruling is difficult.

Because everyone insists on speaking to me constantly.

I sit slouched against the throne while half the royal council argues over grain tariffs like the fate of humanity depends on wheat. One lord is sweating through his collar. Another keeps repeating the same point in different words, apparently hoping repetition will magically make him intelligent.

It does not.

I rub a hand over my face slowly, already exhausted.

“…and if the eastern merchants continue increasing prices,” one advisor drones on, “the northern trade routes could collapse entirely.”

“Then lower the import taxes,” I say flatly.

The room falls silent.

The advisor blinks at me. “Your Majesty, it is significantly more complicated than—”

“No,” I interrupt. “You’re making it complicated because none of you enjoy solving problems quickly.”

A few servants immediately look down to hide their smiles.

Cowards.

The advisor opens his mouth again anyway. Brave man.

Before he can continue, the giant throne room doors creak open.

And every thought in my head disappears instantly.

Lyra walks inside like she belongs here.

Honestly, at this point, she does.

Soft pale blue silk drapes around her figure effortlessly, silver threading woven delicately along the sleeves and bodice like moonlight stitched into fabric. Her long white hair spills over one shoulder in loose waves while sunlight pours behind her through the open doors, making her look less like a

queen and more like a dangerous hallucination.

The entire room notices her immediately.

Unfortunately for everyone else—

I noticed first.

My posture straightens without permission.

Several council members visibly notice that.

Traitors.

Lyra’s bright blue eyes sweep across the room until they land on me.

Then she smiles.

Gods.

Actually cruel.

“Your Majesty,” she says dramatically while approaching the throne, “you look miserable.”

“I am miserable.”

Her smile widens.

The nobles look horrified by how casually she speaks to me.

Which only makes me like her more.

She reaches the throne platform and sits gracefully in the chair beside mine, crossing one leg over the other like she personally owns the kingdom.

Maybe she does.

I lean slightly toward her. “You’re late.”

“You’re alive,” she replies calmly. “Clearly the meeting wasn’t important.”

A servant nearby nearly chokes.

Weak.

I stare at Lyra for a long moment before sighing deeply.

“Marry me immediately.”

The entire throne room freezes.

Absolutely motionless.

Lyra stares at me.

“Leon.”

“What?” I ask innocently.

“You cannot just say things like that during meetings.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re the king!”

I glance around the room lazily. “And yet somehow they continue surviving my personality.”

A few guards suddenly become very interested in the walls.

Lyra presses her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh.

Beautiful.

I turn back toward the frozen council. “Continue.”

Nobody moves.

I raise a brow slowly.

“Well?” I say. “Did the kingdom collapse while I was distracted?”

The advisor clears his throat shakily and continues speaking, though now everyone keeps glancing nervously between me and Lyra every few seconds.

Like they expect us to start kissing directly in front of the throne.

Unprofessional.

Tempting.

But unprofessional.

Lyra quietly reaches for the goblet beside her chair and takes a sip of wine while pretending to ignore me.

Pretending.

I know her too well now.

“You’re staring again,” she murmurs without looking at me.

“You arrived looking like that. I think my reaction is justified.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting, princess.”

Her cheeks tint faintly pink.

Victory.

She quickly looks away, pretending to focus on the meeting again.

I smile lazily to myself.

Gods, I adore bothering her.

The advisor continues rambling about trade routes while I completely stop listening.

Because Lyra absentmindedly starts playing with the rings on her fingers whenever she’s thinking deeply.

And now she’s doing it beside me.

Tiny silver rings glint beneath the throne room light while her expression grows distant and thoughtful.

I watch her quietly for a second too long.

Then longer.

Then apparently long enough for her to notice again.

Without looking at me, she says softly, “If you keep staring at me like that during council meetings, people are going to start talking.”

I lean closer slightly.

“My love,” I murmur near her ear, “they started talking months ago.”

That finally breaks her composure.

She laughs softly and lightly smacks my chest with the back of her hand.

The motion is playful.

Gentle.

But every noble in the room looks like they just witnessed treason.

I catch her wrist before she can pull away fully, grinning.

“You hit the king,” I say dramatically.

“You deserved it.”

“Violence in the throne room,” I sigh. “Scandalous.”

“You called me ‘my love’ in front of the entire council.”

“And?”

Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “You enjoy making people uncomfortable.”

“I enjoy making you flustered.”

“That sounds narcissistic.”

“It’s only narcissism if I’m wrong.”

She stares at me for a moment.

Then mutters under her breath—

“You’re lucky you’re pretty, pretty boy.”

Silence.

Complete silence.

My soul leaves my body briefly.

Slowly, I turn toward her.

“Aww,” I murmur softly. “You think I’m pretty?”

Her eyes widen instantly like she regrets every decision she’s ever made.

“Shut up.”

I grin wider.

Across the throne room, one of the older advisors looks seconds away from collapsing from stress.

Weak, again.

Lyra lightly smacks my chest a second time. “Stop looking so pleased with yourself.”

“Princess,” I say smoothly, “you called me pretty boy in the middle of a royal meeting. This is the happiest day of my life.”

“You are so dramatic.”

“And yet,” I murmur, still holding her wrist gently, “you adore me anyway.”

Her expression softens just slightly.

Enough that something warm settles painfully beneath my ribs.

Gods.

There it is again.

That feeling.

The one that terrifies me more than war ever did.

Because somehow this woman has become the only thing in the kingdom capable of calming me down simply by existing beside me.

Then suddenly—

The throne room doors burst open violently.

Every guard reaches for their weapon instantly.

A soldier rushes inside breathing heavily, face pale.

And immediately—

every instinct in my body sharpens.

Something is wrong.

Very wrong.

The soldier drops to one knee.

“Your Majesty,” he says shakily, “there’s been another attack.”