Romans de Oyenji

The silk kerchief hit the floor with a soft, insulting thud. It looked like a white flag of surrender, but to Nikos, it was a death warrant for his pride. He didn't move for a heartbeat, his pulse thrumming a frantic, irregular rhythm against his ribs. The cold wine was a sticky, cloying weight on his skin, soaking through the fine fabric of his shirt, making it transparent and clinging. He could feel the eyes of the entire court—the people who used to toast his father, the people who used to laugh at his jokes—burning into his back. They weren't just watching a servant; they were watching a falling star hit the mud."I said, clean it," Andreas’s voice dropped an octave, a low-frequency warning that vibrated through the floorboards.Nikos sank to his knees. The marble was unforgiving, biting into his joints. He reached out, his fingers trembling as he gripped the silk. He could hear the muffled snickers from the back of the hall—the "vibe" was straight-up toxic. These people were livi

Nikos froze, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The King’s breath was a warm, steady pressure against the sensitive skin of his throat, and the word 'fond' felt less like a compliment and more like a death sentence. For a heartbeat, the room was silent, the only sound the crackle of the hearth and the heavy, rhythmic thrum of Nikos’s own blood in his ears. Andreas let go of his wrist, the heat of the King’s palm lingering on his skin as if branded there."Finish," Andreas commanded, his voice returning to that low, tectonic rumble. "Then get some sleep. Tomorrow, the court celebrates the unification. You will be there to witness the new era you helped usher in with your family’s silence."The dismissal was abrupt, leaving Nikos to fumble with the remaining buttons with trembling fingers. He didn't look back as he retreated to the small, cold servant’s alcove he had been assigned. He spent the night staring at the stone ceiling, the King’s observation about his s

The King’s fingers lingered for a fraction of a second too long, the leather of his glove grazing Nikos’s skin with a friction that felt like a brand. Then, as abruptly as he’d asserted his claim, Andreas let go. He didn’t step back; he simply stood there, a towering silhouette of absolute authority, watching as Nikos’s head slumped forward, his neck too weak to maintain the defiant angle any longer."Get him out of my sight," Andreas commanded, his voice devoid of the earlier whisper's heat. It was back to that glacier-cold tone, the kind that sent people to the gallows without a second thought. "The West Wing. Ensure he’s... appropriately handled."Two guards, their armor clanking like a death knell in the cavernous hall, didn't wait for Nikos to stand. They grabbed him by the upper arms, dragging him upward. Nikos’s knees barked against the marble, a sharp, white-hot flash of pain shooting up his thighs, but he didn't make a sound. He couldn't afford to. Not when the King’s eyes we

The rain didn't just fall; it hammered against the vaulted glass ceilings of the Petros palace like a million tiny executioners drumming for a head. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of ozone, expensive floor wax, and the metallic tang of blood that still clung to Nikos’s skin. He was forced down, the impact of his knees hitting the cold marble echoing through the cavernous throne room. The sound was a sharp, sickening crack that vibrated up his spine, a reminder that he was no longer the heir to a legacy, but a piece of wreckage washed up on a hostile shore. His wrists were raw where the zip-ties bit into the flesh, a modern cruelty that felt more insulting than iron shackles.Above him, the palace lights hummed with a sterile, white intensity, reflecting off the polished floor until the world looked like it was made of frozen light. Nikos kept his head down, watching a single droplet of rainwater fall from the tip of his nose to the marble. He was drenched, his designer shirt