Under the Princes Hold

Oris rushed into Layla's chamber.

Not seeing her, his heart skipped a beat. His gaze swept across the empty room, and a shiver of worry ran down his spine. He abruptly turned to the guard posted at the entrance, his eyes dark with fury.

— How could you not notice she was gone?! he thundered.

The guard lowered his gaze, unable to find an answer. But Oris didn't wait. He left the room in swift strides, his mind on high alert, scanning every corridor, every shadow in the palace.

Then, at the turn of a balcony, he saw her.

Layla was sitting on the edge of the balustrade, her legs dangling into the void, bathed in the twilight glow. She turned her head toward him and gave him an amused smile, as if her disappearance had been nothing but a harmless game.

— Don't worry, she said lightly. I understood your threats well enough.

A cryptic smile stretched across Oris's lips. In an instant, he closed the distance, lifted her effortlessly like she was nothing but a feather in his hands and placed her before him.

His gaze lingered on her, piercing, unreadable. Then, in a low voice, almost a whisper, he murmured:

— It seems I didn't threaten you enough.

His smile widened, but this time, it carried a promise… A promise that made Layla shiver, though she wasn't sure if it was from fear or something else.

Layla jerked away, slipping from Oris's grasp, and bolted down the hallway. Her dress skimmed the floor as she ran, her bare feet striking against the cold stone.

Behind her, Oris didn't move. He didn't try to stop her, didn't take a single step in her direction. He remained there, shoulders relaxed, a hand brushing absently against his wrist, as if nothing affected him.

But his eyes betrayed him.

They were no longer as impassive as usual. A shadow of thought lingered in them, like a secret whose outcome only he knew. He took a slow breath, lifting his chin with that natural arrogance that defined him. He knew. He knew what was coming. He knew the wheels of fate were already turning.

Was it time?

In her chamber, Layla closed the door behind her with trembling hands. Her breath was erratic, her heart pounding in her chest like a caged bird. She didn't understand anything anymore.

She moved forward slowly, her fingers brushing absentmindedly over the wood of the desk, the fabrics of the bed, searching for an anchor. Everything felt unreal. She wasn't used to being the center of attention. Until now, she had always known how to blend into the shadows, evade prying eyes, slip through silences.

But not anymore.

She let herself fall onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling, her thoughts swirling chaotically. Her body was exhausted, but sleep refused to claim her.

Because one truth echoed relentlessly in her mind:

Nothing would ever be the same again.

Layla woke up with a strange sense of unease. Her sleep had been restless, filled with shadows and indistinct whispers. She ran a hand over her face, trying to shake off the unpleasant feeling, then stepped onto the terrace to breathe in the fresh morning air.

The golden light of dawn bathed the palace, and for a moment, she lost herself in the tranquility of the landscape. But a sound behind her shattered her illusion of serenity.

A quiet but deliberate throat clearing.

Layla turned slowly, her gaze meeting a man she hadn't seen in some time.

The servant.

The one whose smile always seemed to hold a hidden promise, whose eyes gleamed with a barely concealed malice.

He stood there, leaning against the doorway, a twisted smirk on his lips, as if savoring a secret she had yet to uncover.

— It's been a while since I last saw you, she said, her voice neutral but wary.

The servant's smile widened, revealing a row of perfectly aligned teeth, devoid of warmth.

— The prince is expecting you, he announced smoothly.

Layla felt a tightness in her throat. She didn't need to ask why. She simply nodded and followed him.

The palace corridors seemed longer than usual, each step echoing in the heavy silence. When they finally reached the inner courtyard, she found herself in a private garden where a grand table, laden with luxurious dishes, stood beneath a shaded pergola.

But it wasn't the food that caught her attention.

It was him.

Oris stood there, leaning against one of the stone pillars, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze locked onto her with chilling intensity. His expression was frozen, implacable, devoid of any trace of mercy.

There was no amusement, no explosive anger only that sharp gravity, heavier than any shouted threat.

— Finally, you're here, he said in a low voice, but it struck like thunder.

Layla's heart quickened.

The prince slowly uncrossed his arms and stepped forward, each movement deliberate, as if he measured the weight of the moment.

When he stopped just before her, he held her gaze, unwavering, and his voice, cold as steel, fell between them like a sentence:

— It's time for you to receive your punishment.

Layla shivered but did not step back.

She forced herself to hold his gaze, even as every fiber of her being screamed at her to run.

Oris tilted his head slightly, as if assessing her courage, then continued, his tone still impassive:

— From today onward, you will work during the day among the people, with the laborers and servants.

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle, before adding in a lower, sharper voice:

— And at night… you will be my personal healer. In my chambers.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then, in a firm tone, leaving no room for argument, he concluded:

— And that is an order.

Layla's fingers clenched involuntarily. For a moment, she wanted to protest, to shout that she had no obligation to obey. But facing him facing that unyielding presence she understood she had no choice.

The night had fallen, wrapping the palace in a suffocating silence.

Layla had been waiting for this moment for hours, holding her breath at every sound outside her door. When she was finally certain everything was still, she rose carefully, her heart hammering.

She opened the door with painstaking slowness, shivering at the faint creak of the hinges.

Don't make a sound… don't make a sound.

Her bare feet barely skimmed the cold floor as she moved through the dimly lit corridors. Each shadow seemed more threatening than the last. She knew the palace, yet tonight, it felt foreign, immense, labyrinthine.

A noise behind her.

She froze, throat tightening. A sharp inhale, a rustle of fabric… Someone was approaching.

She quickened her pace, nearly stumbling in her haste. She had to get out. She had to escape before it was too late.

But she had no idea where to go.

The corridors stretched endlessly, and she realized she was going in circles, trapped in this palace that seemed to be closing in on her.

Then, suddenly a flash of light, a murmur of voices.

She stopped just in time.

In the open hall leading to the courtyard, he stood.

Golden-Belly.

Layla's blood ran cold.

He was there, standing in the center of the room, his enormous silhouette draped in silk, his opulent belly rising and falling with each heavy breath. His eyes, always half-lidded in smug satisfaction, gleamed with a cruel light under the flickering torches.

Around him, his personal court laughed, whispered, sipping wine from golden goblets.

The air was thick with an intoxicating scent, a mix of sweet fruit and spices that made her stomach churn.

He was feasting… while the rest of the kingdom suffered.

Layla's heart pounded. She had to leave. Immediately.

But as she stepped back into the shadows, a cold sweat trickled down her neck.

A chill of horror coursed through her.

She lifted her gaze… and met his.

Golden-Belly had seen her.

Under the Prince's Hold

Oris rushed into Layla's chamber.

Not seeing her, his heart skipped a beat. His gaze swept across the empty room, and a shiver of worry ran down his spine. He abruptly turned to the guard posted at the entrance, his eyes dark with fury.

— How could you not notice she was gone?! he thundered.

The guard lowered his gaze, unable to find an answer. But Oris didn't wait. He left the room in swift strides, his mind on high alert, scanning every corridor, every shadow in the palace.

Then, at the turn of a balcony, he saw her.

Layla was sitting on the edge of the balustrade, her legs dangling into the void, bathed in the twilight glow. She turned her head toward him and gave him an amused smile, as if her disappearance had been nothing but a harmless game.

— Don't worry, she said lightly. I understood your threats well enough.

A cryptic smile stretched across Oris's lips. In an instant, he closed the distance, lifted her effortlessly like she was nothing but a feather in his hands and placed her before him.

His gaze lingered on her, piercing, unreadable. Then, in a low voice, almost a whisper, he murmured:

— It seems I didn't threaten you enough.

His smile widened, but this time, it carried a promise… A promise that made Layla shiver, though she wasn't sure if it was from fear or something else.

Layla jerked away, slipping from Oris's grasp, and bolted down the hallway. Her dress skimmed the floor as she ran, her bare feet striking against the cold stone.

Behind her, Oris didn't move. He didn't try to stop her, didn't take a single step in her direction. He remained there, shoulders relaxed, a hand brushing absently against his wrist, as if nothing affected him.

But his eyes betrayed him.

They were no longer as impassive as usual. A shadow of thought lingered in them, like a secret whose outcome only he knew. He took a slow breath, lifting his chin with that natural arrogance that defined him. He knew. He knew what was coming. He knew the wheels of fate were already turning.

Was it time?

In her chamber, Layla closed the door behind her with trembling hands. Her breath was erratic, her heart pounding in her chest like a caged bird. She didn't understand anything anymore.

She moved forward slowly, her fingers brushing absentmindedly over the wood of the desk, the fabrics of the bed, searching for an anchor. Everything felt unreal. She wasn't used to being the center of attention. Until now, she had always known how to blend into the shadows, evade prying eyes, slip through silences.

But not anymore.

She let herself fall onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling, her thoughts swirling chaotically. Her body was exhausted, but sleep refused to claim her.

Because one truth echoed relentlessly in her mind:

Nothing would ever be the same again.

Layla woke up with a strange sense of unease. Her sleep had been restless, filled with shadows and indistinct whispers. She ran a hand over her face, trying to shake off the unpleasant feeling, then stepped onto the terrace to breathe in the fresh morning air.

The golden light of dawn bathed the palace, and for a moment, she lost herself in the tranquility of the landscape. But a sound behind her shattered her illusion of serenity.

A quiet but deliberate throat clearing.

Layla turned slowly, her gaze meeting a man she hadn't seen in some time.

The servant.

The one whose smile always seemed to hold a hidden promise, whose eyes gleamed with a barely concealed malice.

He stood there, leaning against the doorway, a twisted smirk on his lips, as if savoring a secret she had yet to uncover.

— It's been a while since I last saw you, she said, her voice neutral but wary.

The servant's smile widened, revealing a row of perfectly aligned teeth, devoid of warmth.

— The prince is expecting you, he announced smoothly.

Layla felt a tightness in her throat. She didn't need to ask why. She simply nodded and followed him.

The palace corridors seemed longer than usual, each step echoing in the heavy silence. When they finally reached the inner courtyard, she found herself in a private garden where a grand table, laden with luxurious dishes, stood beneath a shaded pergola.

But it wasn't the food that caught her attention.

It was him.

Oris stood there, leaning against one of the stone pillars, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze locked onto her with chilling intensity. His expression was frozen, implacable, devoid of any trace of mercy.

There was no amusement, no explosive anger only that sharp gravity, heavier than any shouted threat.

— Finally, you're here, he said in a low voice, but it struck like thunder.

Layla's heart quickened.

The prince slowly uncrossed his arms and stepped forward, each movement deliberate, as if he measured the weight of the moment.

When he stopped just before her, he held her gaze, unwavering, and his voice, cold as steel, fell between them like a sentence:

— It's time for you to receive your punishment.

Layla shivered but did not step back.

She forced herself to hold his gaze, even as every fiber of her being screamed at her to run.

Oris tilted his head slightly, as if assessing her courage, then continued, his tone still impassive:

— From today onward, you will work during the day among the people, with the laborers and servants.

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle, before adding in a lower, sharper voice:

— And at night… you will be my personal healer. In my chambers.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then, in a firm tone, leaving no room for argument, he concluded:

— And that is an order.

Layla's fingers clenched involuntarily. For a moment, she wanted to protest, to shout that she had no obligation to obey. But facing him facing that unyielding presence she understood she had no choice.

The night had fallen, wrapping the palace in a suffocating silence.

Layla had been waiting for this moment for hours, holding her breath at every sound outside her door. When she was finally certain everything was still, she rose carefully, her heart hammering.

She opened the door with painstaking slowness, shivering at the faint creak of the hinges.

Don't make a sound… don't make a sound.

Her bare feet barely skimmed the cold floor as she moved through the dimly lit corridors. Each shadow seemed more threatening than the last. She knew the palace, yet tonight, it felt foreign, immense, labyrinthine.

A noise behind her.

She froze, throat tightening. A sharp inhale, a rustle of fabric… Someone was approaching.

She quickened her pace, nearly stumbling in her haste. She had to get out. She had to escape before it was too late.

But she had no idea where to go.

The corridors stretched endlessly, and she realized she was going in circles, trapped in this palace that seemed to be closing in on her.

Then, suddenly a flash of light, a murmur of voices.

She stopped just in time.

In the open hall leading to the courtyard, he stood.

Golden-Belly.

Layla's blood ran cold.

He was there, standing in the center of the room, his enormous silhouette draped in silk, his opulent belly rising and falling with each heavy breath. His eyes, always half-lidded in smug satisfaction, gleamed with a cruel light under the flickering torches.

Around him, his personal court laughed, whispered, sipping wine from golden goblets.

The air was thick with an intoxicating scent, a mix of sweet fruit and spices that made her stomach churn.

He was feasting… while the rest of the kingdom suffered.

Layla's heart pounded. She had to leave. Immediately.

But as she stepped back into the shadows, a cold sweat trickled down her neck.

A chill of horror coursed through her.

She lifted her gaze… and met his.

Golden-Belly had seen her.