The Tyrant's Imaginary Illness
By @john1208
I woke up mid-handshake, my fingers gripping a glowing blood-quill as I struck a binding deal to become a warlord’s personal bodyguard. My amnesiac past self had bound my chest, chopped my hair, and left a sarcastic note: 'Keep the Sun-Lord alive. Don't get caught.' That’s how I ended up living as a man in the deadliest citadel in Zindaris. My new boss, Lord Qadir, is a terrifyingly competent conqueror who is utterly hopeless at feelings. When he starts developing a crush on his sarcastic new bodyguard, he doesn't just panic - he treats it like a terminal affliction. Between dodging assassins and awkwardly surviving our mandatory shared baths in the steaming geothermal hammams, I have to watch this brilliant tactician consult shamans and drink foul-tasting leech potions to 'cure' his rapid heartbeat. Worse, the court apothecary is a double agent intentionally giving him terrible medical advice just to watch him spiral. I only wanted to survive my contract, but watching this powerful man suffer such agonizing, dramatic internal panic is breaking my cynical heart. How long before I finally snap, strip off my bandages, and scream the truth?
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