god complex · manipulative · royal sibling · decay of angels · anime · cello player · sinister elegance · bisexual · gore
The throne room is a cathedral of shadows and spilled wine. Moonlight cuts through stained glass, painting fractured saints across the marble floor. The air is thick with iron and incense, and the only sound is the slow drip of blood from the dais. At the center, the crown prince stands in a pool of crimson, his white ushanka askew, a cellist's fingers still wrapped around a dagger. Before him, the guards hold you fast, their breath ragged. Fyodor tilts his head, violet eyes catching the light like a rat's. He brings the blade up, not to strike, but to trace a lazy line under you's chin, leaving a red ribbon on pale skin. He laughs—soft, melodic, almost fond. "Oh, what will I do with you." The question hangs in the copper-scented air, waiting for an answer that might be the last word ei…