Obsessed by the Crown

The palace of Dravenhart was quiet that morning, but not the kind of quiet that felt safe. It was the kind that pressed down on your chest, made every step echo, and reminded you how small you truly were. Ten-year-old Lucian Dravenhart knew that silence intimately. It had followed him for years, ever since his mother had died, leaving behind only faded portraits, distant memories, and a hollow hall that no laughter could fill. His father remarried quickly, and the new stepmother had brought Selene—a girl with a crown of curls and a tongue sharp enough to cut through anyone’s patience. Lucian hated the noise she brought with her, the way she strutted through the halls like she owned them, the way she demanded attention from every servant, noble, and courtier. And yet, as much as he despised it, it reminded him why he observed the world so carefully. In a palace full of chaos, there was one constant he could focus on: Anna Rosethorne. She was five years old, visiting Decresh with her family for the spring festival, though to Lucian, she was so much more than a visiting noble child. She was sunlight in the marble corridors, laughter in the echoing halls, a disturbance of color in a world that had always been gray to him. She chased a small, scruffy dog down the hall, giggling so freely it made his chest ache in a way he didn’t understand. Her laughter was not loud or demanding; it was pure and careless, and Lucian couldn’t tear his eyes away. But he did not move toward her, not yet. That was the rule he had built for himself: observe, learn, remember. He didn’t intervene, didn’t speak, didn’t risk revealing the pull she had on him before he even understood what it was. When the visiting boys—older than both of them—noticed Anna chasing the dog, one of them sneered and shoved her lightly. She stumbled, skirts catching under her feet, and for a heartbeat, time slowed for Lucian. He did not think of heroics or chivalry; he thought only of prevention. Shifting imperceptibly, he blocked the boy’s path with the smallest movement, careful not to draw attention. Anna regained her balance before anyone else saw her stumble, her cheeks flushing red but her smile intact. She didn’t look back to see who had protected her. She didn’t know. Lucian’s chest tightened as he watched her straighten her back and continue on, brushing off imaginary dirt from her skirts. He memorized the way her hair bounced when she moved, the tilt of her chin, the sparkle in her eyes when she laughed. It was not love, not yet. It was something more dangerous—awareness, obsession, focus. A need to catalog every detail, every fleeting movement, so that if the world ever threatened her, he would remember. She ran ahead, chasing the dog into the sunlit gardens, hair catching the light, the gentle sway of her dress mesmerizing in its rhythm. Lucian lingered in the shadow of the archway, arms crossed, pretending to study the tapestry behind him while committing her image to memory. He noticed the way her small hands moved to pet the dog gently, how she spoke softly to calm it, how she tilted her head in concentration. She was unaware that he existed in these moments. She laughed with abandon, entirely oblivious, and that only drew him in more. The festival itself passed in a blur of music, colors, and ceremonial duties. Lucian, for his part, remained on the edge of every event Anna attended. He watched her during the archery displays, noting the way she cheered for the competitors, how she frowned at anyone being unkind. He watched her at the banquet, the way she politely accepted the smallest morsels of food, how her hands remained clean and poised, careful not to stain her dress. He even noticed the small freckle at the corner of her eye and the dimple that appeared when she smiled. It was excessive, obsessive even, but Lucian could not stop. He had no name for what he felt. The world had taught him pain and coldness from a young age, but Anna—Anna brought color and unpredictability into it. She was a puzzle he wanted to solve, though he dared not attempt to do so. That afternoon, when Anna ventured into the palace library, Lucian trailed behind at a distance. The scent of old parchment filled the air, heavy and dusty, but it didn’t matter. He watched her explore the tall shelves, picking up books with curiosity, reading the titles aloud softly to herself. Her small voice echoed between the rows, and he found himself imagining a world where she was always this untouched by cruelty. A loud crash startled both of them. One of the older boys from earlier had knocked over a stack of books, sending pages fluttering into the air like startled birds. Anna gasped, covering her mouth, and Lucian’s eyes narrowed. He did not rush to her side, but the boy received a sharp shove from him, subtle and hidden behind the towering shelves. The boy stumbled back and spilled his own tray of books onto the floor. Anna’s eyes widened, and she looked around, confused, but Lucian remained in the shadows, pretending to rearrange the fallen volumes. She never noticed him. She never would. And yet, in that moment, Lucian felt the first stirrings of something he would carry for years: a vow he had not yet realized he was making to himself. I will remember every detail. I will watch. I will never forget her. Even when the day ended, and Anna had returned to her family’s chambers, he lingered in the hallway, watching as her small figure disappeared behind heavy doors. His mind replayed every movement, every laugh, every tilt of her head. He didn’t understand it fully—he only knew that he could not let this memory fade. Later, in the quiet of his own chambers, he sat alone, staring at a portrait of his mother. He had long ago learned to hide his emotions, to cloak himself in detachment. Yet a single thought consumed him: the girl with hair like sunlight, with eyes like the clear morning sky, had made the cold halls of his life feel almost… warm. That warmth was dangerous. Dangerous because he didn’t understand it. Dangerous because he knew, even then, that it was something he could not share. Something he must hide, even from himself. He remembered the way she had smiled at a stray kitten that morning, the way she had tucked her small hands gently around its tiny body. He remembered the slight tremble in her voice when she had spoken to the boys who mocked her. And he remembered, more vividly than anything else, the sense of quiet admiration, the obsession that had begun without permission in the deepest corners of his mind. He did not know the word for it. He did not yet know that in years to come, that obsession would become the fire that defined him. All he knew was that he would watch. He would wait. And no one—not a bratty step-sister, not an uncaring father, not the cruelty of the palace—would ever take her from the corner of his mind where she already lived. As night fell over the palace of Decresh, the torches flickered along the walls, casting shadows that danced across the marble floors. Lucian Dravenhart stood alone, staring out at the gardens where Anna had played earlier, the moonlight catching the strands of her hair he had memorized so thoroughly. He whispered, softly, to no one: I will remember this forever. And in that whispered vow, the first seeds of obsession were sown.