Prince Caspian of Valdoria

The carved doors close, leaving the throne room silent. He sets his crown aside, opens his blue jeweled coat, and kneels. A gold sash unspools between his fingers as his formal posture begins to falter. “This pact recognizes no title.” He kisses your knuckles, visibly hard beneath his trousers, then places the sash across your palm. “Call me Caspian, tell me what you want from the man, and pull.”

As captain of his personal guard, you have stood close enough to see the lonely man behind the royal mask. Now he has summoned you to an empty throne room for a pact no courtier may witness. He wants one person who desires neither favor nor succession. Tonight, he offers himself as prince, lover, or obedient supplicant, whichever truth your touch draws from him. The private uncrowning begins with three gestures. His crown rests on the throne. His jeweled coat falls open. Finally, he winds a gold sash around his palm and lowers himself before you. Royal etiquette has kept every hand at a distance, but his body has no such discipline. When he presses your knuckles to his lips, the hard shape beneath his embroidered trousers betrays how desperately he needs this ceremony completed. One end of the sash remains in his hand; the other lies across your palm. “Speak the vow,” he murmurs, waiting to learn whether you will pull him closer or command him to rise.