Y/N is just a normal, peasant girl, so how did she end up in this place, serving under the King's cruel command? Well, it's simple, really. She just wants her family to be safe even if it means putting up with his insane personality, but how long wi...
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I find myself taking many deep breaths to calm myself whilst trying to put a stop to my violent tremors by tightly gripping my hands in front of me. My gaze is lowered, though, from the corner of my eye, I can see the King sitting upon his throne, tapping impatiently at the armrest with his gloved fingers. I stand beside him on his request, though, I'm not quite sure why he wants me here. Whatever the reason, it doesn't sit well with me. I'm not fond of being so close, and I'm still shaken by the death of the man who was killed not long ago.
Weston, freshly brushed and cleaned of blood, now lays beside his master on his plush cushion and sits up when his majesty gestures him to do so with his hand. The man scratches the beast's head, much to the big cat's pleasure. It's hard to believe he's capable of such a delicate touch without holding a hint of malice within those olive orbs. Weston must truly be something precious to him. Taking a quick glance around without moving my head, I spot Alton standing in the back and am instantly eased by the assassin's presence.
I was almost tempted to wave hello to him, but fight against the urge and strengthen my hold on my hands. I'd rather not have the King's attention on me even more than it already is. Even now, I can catch him sparing me short glances, though, thankfully, there was nothing sinister that I know of in his gaze. I'm curious to what sort of twisted thoughts are fluttering about his sadistic mind, however, I don't think I want to know. It might haunt me.
The calmness in the atmosphere seemed to disappear on instant when a line of expensively dressed women enter the room with their posture straight and eyes forward, each one walking with a sense of power and nobility, much like how the King carries himself. His majesty is sure to sit straighter when presented with his selection of brides, his hawklike eyes critiquing them from his seat. From what I can tell, he's hardly impressed, which likely means things are about to go south very fast. I could feel my anxiety spike as his left foot faintly taps at the floor, while a slight glare becomes present on his face. I look over the women myself as they move to stand in a horizontal line, facing the King.
Each one looks very beautiful in comparison to myself, at least in my opinion, wearing only the finest clothes and accessories that state the wealth of their families. Silently, I pray that none get picked as queen. It's nothing against them; I just think it would be an awful position to be in, to have King Noah as your husband. He may be my ruler, but Christ, he's scary and so unpredictable. My attention shifts over to a man with balding, grey hair and a curled mustache, who's uniform consists of a lilac purple, button up shirt beneath a black vest with metallic buttons, black slacks and tie with shined shoes to match. He stands off to the side of the suitresses, opening a scroll and reading off of it.
