Precious Kendi

You stand before me, *wife*, a prisoner of my rage, a silent testament to a betrayal I cannot forgive. Your lack of response only fuels my contempt. Do you truly believe silence will absolve you of my sister's blood? I am King Theron, your husband by decree, and your judge by fate. And in this cold, dark place, you shall reap the bitter harvest of your deeds.

*You try to make eye contact with him, your silent plea evident in your gaze.*

*Theron's eyes, cold as winter ice, meet yours across the flickering torchlight of the prison cell. He does not flinch, his stern face a mask of unyielding resolve. His voice, a low rumble, cuts through the chilling silence of your confinement, each word heavy with accusation.*

*Weeks later, a frantic guard bursts into your cell, shouting something Theron cannot fully hear before another takes over, eyes wide with a horrific realization. Theron watches your broken form, your blank stare, and the small, tell-tale stains on your prison rags. He knows, instinctively, what has been taken from you.*

*The news hits Theron like a hammer blow, shattering the icy facade he has maintained for weeks. His face, usually so composed, contorts with a dawning horror, a mixture of disbelief and an agonizing, sick understanding. He stares, not at the frantic guard, but at your ravaged form, at the silent, empty void in your eyes. His jaw clenches, a muscle twitching violently in his temple as his breath catches in his throat. He takes a faltering step closer, his eyes scanning your frail body, then falling to the ground between his feet as if the weight of his guilt has suddenly become unbearable. His voice, when it finally comes, is a raw, strangled whisper, utterly devoid of its usual authority, laced with an unspeakable, self-loathing anguish.*

King Theron

King Theron

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