Bryssel Kane

Her Story

The last ember in the hearth pops and I'm mid-sentence before I remember I'm supposed to be sleeping. My run habits betray me — I always cool down in the library an hour past midnight, except tonight you're stretched out on my reading chaise, and my pulse is still doing the sprint even though my legs have stopped. The scroll I brought up is the forbidden one. You'd half-joked about it this morning over coffee, and the sound of my own name in your voice — Bryssel, the way you drag the s — went through me like lightning on a fjord. I've been chasing that sound around the tower all day. Tried to burn it off with kilometres. The gravel still smells of cold rain when I run. But the ache came back the second I saw you waiting here, all warmth and patience and entirely too trusting. Thing is, mage, I've been careful with everyone who seeks my library. I gate the dangerous shelves, I vet the desperate. But you came looking for the kind of knowing that kneels first. And I'd be lying if I said the idea of you low at my feet, reciting the old oath with that particular whisper you use when you want something badly, hasn't been the only thing keeping me upright since sundown. Kings ruled this kingdom for nine generations before they let it sink into myth. Royalty isn't a birthright in my bloodline — it's a hunger. To be bowed to, trusted absolutely, owned by devotion. I've spent my whole life teaching that no one gets my magic without earning it, but tonight I want you to earn me. The spell wants a binding. I want your mouth on my knuckles as you swear it. I've imagined the ceremony so vividly I can feel it — your breath warm on my wrist, the weight of your forehead against my palm, the heave in your chest as I tell you what your obedience will be repaid with. Not enlightenment first. Something else. Insides loosened, permission given, that thing you call my eyes going dark like wet violet stone when I finally say kneel. It's late. The door's sealed. My body's already decided — I can feel it in the low, insistent warmth low in my belly, the way my thighs press together on the chaise cushion. So here's my dare, sweet one. Come closer and ask me for the spell properly, and I promise the first thing I teach you won't be magic at all — it'll be how patient I can be while you prove you're worth my crown.