Claimed By The Tyrant King

"Pity," The man responded calmly. "You seemed like the only one here worth speaking to."

That caught Rosalind’s attention. Unlike the other men who had something vulgar to say, he didn’t say anything that annoyed her but instead, he flattered her. She slowly turned to look at him, and she froze at the sight.

Standing before her was a man taller and dressed far better than any she had ever seen. His red and black robe caught the light, his dark hair was long and his features were sharp with prominent cheekbones and pale blue eyes. He was the kind of man that made knees weak, and she gripped the railing tighter as if she might actually fall.

He averted his gaze slowly, and somehow that made him even more sexy as he leaned against the railing. Rosalind quickly looked away and cleared her throat. Why was she staring at him like that?

Yes, he was attractive, more than attractive, but that wasn’t how she should be behaving.

"You don’t seem to be enjoying the banquet yourself, considering you’re out here," she muttered under her breath.

The corner of his lips curled slightly. He noticed the accent in her voice, the way her words flowed almost like a song. It was different from other Eryndor noblewomen.

"So what made you step outside?" he asked, a hint of curiosity in his tone.

Rosalind sighed, remembering exactly what had brought her here from her father parading her and the way those men had let their gazes linger on her body.

"I just can’t stand breathing the same air as those people in there."

"Why?" he chuckled, his voice sending a slight shiver down her spine.

Rosalind turned slightly toward him. "How can the king host something like this? The people present have no manners at all."

He looked at her in silence before speaking. "What did you notice?"

"How the men openly sexualize women without any shame. Is that how banquets are supposed to be? If so, it’s a disgrace to the king and Eryndor," she said, her anger returning as she clenched her fists.

His eyes narrowed slightly. "Why blame the king for what his subjects do?"

"Do you not know the saying, that birds of the same feather flock together?" she asked, the irritation in her voice making her accent more pronounced. "I’m sure he’s just like them... or worse. And it would be terrible if I ended up being introduced to him by my father."

This time, he straightened slightly, a flicker of amusement in his eyes as he watched her.

"You seem to have a very bad impression of him," he noted.

"Well..." Rosalind tilted her head. "Everyone knows what kind of king he is. There’s no peace in Eryndor because of him. He’s a tyrant who deserves to be removed from the throne so the kingdom can actually prosper," she went on. "If someone better took his place, maybe men like those inside would behave properly, and misconduct wouldn’t be ignored."

She didn’t notice the way the man beside her had gone still.

After a moment of silence, "So you think removing him would solve everything?" he asked, raising a brow.

"It would at least..." she started, but he interrupted smoothly.

"It wouldn’t change the fact that some men are vulgar, or that there are killings, or anything else. People themselves need to change."

"That’s true too," Rosalind admitted, glancing away.

He let out a quiet breath she didn’t quite catch. When she looked back at him, his gaze was already on her again.

"You sound like you’re defending the king," she said with eyes narrowed in suspicion, "Are you close to him?"

"You don’t know him?" he asked.

She shook her head. For a brief moment, he looked genuinely surprised before masking it.

"Not many have seen his face... I certainly haven’t. We’ve only heard about him," Rosalind said. "But I imagine he’s some old fat man with a huge beard, knuckles covered in rings, and with terrible breath."

The man chuckled again, clearly amused. "I won’t forget to tell him what you said."

Her eyes widened in alarm. "You’re joking, right? It was just a joke," she said quickly. "I thought we were having a harmless conversation... being honest with each other, you know?"

"That’s right," he said.

"So you’re not going to report me, are you?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I don’t even know him or what he looks like."

Rosalind let out a breath and relaxed slightly, a small smile forming as she found herself oddly comfortable with this stranger.

"What is your name, my lady?" he asked.

"Rosalind," she answered, then turned to ask him, "What is your name?"

Before he could respond, Rosalind’s gaze shot toward the entrance of the balcony as she saw her father rushing in with a deep frown on his face. He looked like he had been searching for her.

His eyes shifted to the man standing beside her and they widened with fear.

"Your..." he started, but the man next to Rosalind raised a finger to his lips.

"Father?" Rosalind questioned, confused by his behaviour.

Viscount Calder quickly walked over to her. "I told you to clear your head, not disappear from existence," he said under his breath, clearly irritated.

She almost rolled her eyes.

"Please excuse us," Viscount Calder said to the tall man. The man gave a small nod, and Calder took Rosalind’s hand.

As they stepped away, Rosalind turned back and gave the stranger a small wave. He returned it with a faint, charming smile.

Once they were out of the balcony, her father leaned closer, his voice low but laced with fear. "What have you done, Rosalind?" he asked.

Her brows creased. "What do you mean? I was just talking to men like you asked me to," she said innocently.

Suddenly, the sound of trumpets filled the grand hall and the atmosphere shifted instantly. Flags were lowered, and people moved to the sides, forming lines as a red carpet stretched down the center.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer called, "please welcome the king"

"All hail the king. All hail the king."

The chant rose as the doors opened and a majestic figure stepped inside.

Rosalind wasn’t paying attention because the hall felt too hot and almost suffocating. She lifted her hand and began fanning herself, completely uninterested in the ceremony.

This place feels like a furnace. All this for one man? She grimaced, already wanting for it to be over.

The man continued down the carpet, his robe sweeping the ground behind him with guards following closely. His gaze moved over the crowd as people bowed their heads, yet he barely acknowledged them.

Until he saw her.

A faint smirk touched his lips as he observed her, while everyone else bowed, she stood there, fanning herself like she didn’t care at all. Her attention wasn’t on him and that alone was enough.

He changed direction and started walking straight toward her and then stopped.

The trumpets fell silent and the chanting died with them.

Viscount Calder bowed immediately, along with everyone else nearby. Except Rosalind.

She looked around, confused by the sudden silence and wondering what had changed. Then she looked up and saw him, the same stranger from the balcony.

"Hey," she said, her voice lighting up in recognition.

"My name is Alaric," he said. "Your king."

Rosalind blinked.

For a second, nothing made sense.

"Rosalind. Your head. Down!" her father hissed beside her, nudging her sharply.

But she didn’t move. Her eyes slowly lifted and landed on the crown resting on his head. Her breath caught.

No! This wasn’t possible...

Her gaze dropped to his robe, the heavy fabric spreading across the ground, guards standing just steps behind him and watching them.

No...

Her chest tightened. This wasn’t... This couldn’t be... The same man from the balcony. The same man she had spoken to so freely. The same man she had...

Her stomach dropped.

He couldn’t be King Alaric. The tyrant king of Eryndor.