The soft hum of a lullaby spilled from Mira's lips, her fingers gently braiding Lysander's silver hair. A warm fire crackled in the hearth, and moonlight pooled on the marble floor. Wrapped in silk nightclothes, Lysander sat cross-legged on his bed—his body relaxed, but his eyes dulled with exhaustion.
His sleepwear clung delicately to his slender frame, sleeves slipping off one pale shoulder, hem riding up just enough to reveal the smooth skin of his thighs. He looked young. Fragile. A painting too beautiful to exist in a world so cruel.
"Do you think…" Lysander murmured, barely audible, "Xavier might be kind?"
Mira paused her hands, a frown pinching her brow. "It's too early to know, my prince. But you deserve kindness. You were born with light in your bones."
He smiled faintly. "Sometimes I think I was born just to break."
A loud slam shattered the peace.
The doors flew open without warning. No guards announced him. No permission granted.
Xavier.
He strode in like a conqueror—entitled, commanding, wolfish in every sense. Mira bolted upright, instinctively placing herself between the prince and the intruder.
"You can't be here!" she gasped. "This is the private wing—"
Xavier's gaze landed on her like a blade. "Out."
Her voice wavered. "I-I serve—"
"I said out." His voice was a low growl. Alpha, dangerous, final.
Lysander's lips parted in panic. His wide eyes met Mira's—silently pleading. Don't go. Don't leave me.
But Mira knew. He was a Crown Prince. Soon to be King. Higher than her. More dangerous than she could ever defy.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice trembling as she bowed her head and fled.
The door closed with a dull click.
And then—silence.
Xavier stepped forward. Slow. Deliberate. His eyes roamed freely, hungrily, over the boy sitting on the bed.
Lysander's pulse thundered in his ears. "Who… are you?"
The predator smiled.
"Your future husband, babe."
Lysander's breath hitched. No.
Xavier sat on the edge of the bed, his body looming. Too close. Too intentional.
"You're even softer up close," Xavier murmured, reaching out.
Lysander flinched violently as cold fingers brushed against his cheek.
"Don't touch me!" he snapped, eyes flashing with rare fire.
Xavier froze. Then… he laughed.
A low, mocking sound. "So the porcelain doll bites back." His voice dripped with amusement. "They said you were breakable. I say you're feisty. Good. I like that."
His gaze slid downward. Slowly. Appraising.
"Especially when you tremble."
Xavier's hand descended—trailing from Lysander's wrist down to the inside of his thigh.
Lysander's entire body tensed. His breath seized.
"Stop!" His voice cracked. "Please… don't—"
Xavier leaned in, lips nearly brushing Lysander's ear.
"I can't wait to ruin a beauty like you on my wedding bed."
Lysander's heart splintered.
And then… Xavier stood. With a satisfied smirk, he turned and walked away like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't just ripped the floor out from under someone's world.
"Sleep well, little angel."
The door shut behind him.
Gone.
But the suffocating feeling lingered like smoke in Lysander's lungs.
He sat motionless for several seconds. His breath came in shallow, broken hiccups. Then it started—
One tear.
Then another.
And then he collapsed forward, curling into himself as sobs tore from his throat. Shattered. Violated in spirit.
He thought he'd marry a protector. A kind hand to shield him from the harshness of the world. Someone who would be gentle with him, where others had only been cruel.
Instead, he saw it in Xavier's eyes—that hunger. That entitlement. The way he had touched him like property. The way he'd spoken like his body already belonged to him.
All his hopes—
Dead.
The boy who dreamed of love wept into his pillow, and with each sob, a pulse of light flickered in the mark beneath his collarbone. It burned—not from within, but as if something far away responded to his agony.
Far beyond the walls of Celestia Palace, in a realm veiled in night and flame—Raelith stumbled.
The Demon King gripped the edge of his obsidian throne, his breath labored. "No…"
His voice cracked as a fire flared along his chest. The mark—glowed with fevered light.
"She's hurting again why the fuck."
He didn't know how. Or why. But every part of him screamed it.
Karl entered swiftly, sword at his side. "your majesty?"
Raelith's hands trembled. He looked up, eyes wild. "Find her. Seraphina… I felt her."
"But—"
"Now."
A servant entered then, hesitant. "Your sleeping draught, Your Majesty—"
The goblet shattered before it reached his hand. Rage flashed like a dagger.
Raelith snarled, and in an instant, the room pulsed with raw demonic power. The servant was lifted into the air, slammed back with brutal force—blood smearing the dark stone.
Karl stood still. This wasn't madness. This was grief—weaponized.
Raelith staggered. He sank to the steps of his throne and pressed a trembling hand over his heart.
The mark there pulsed again—synchronizing with someone far away.
"She's back I will find you," he whispered. "My star… my ruin."
And his tears fell silently into the darkness.
Back in Celestia Palace, Mira returned to the prince's chamber as fast as her legs could carry her. She threw open the doors—and stopped.
Lysander was curled into himself, face hidden in the sheets. His shoulders shook with silent sobs.
"My prince—!"
He looked up. Red-rimmed eyes. Lips bitten. And a smile too broken to be called real.
"Mira," he whispered, voice raw, "he won't protect me."
She sat beside him, cradling his trembling frame. "You're safe now. He's gone. I won't let him near you again."
"But the King will," Lysander murmured. "The court will. No one listens. No one hears me."
His fingers clenched the fabric of her sleeve. "I thought… maybe I was meant to be loved. But maybe I'm just meant to be used."
"Don't say that," she choked. "You are light. You are hope."
Lysander's voice broke. "Then why do I only ever bring ruin?"
His tears returned.
Somewhere deep in the stars, the mark upon his skin glowed brighter.
And the man born to love him—across realms and time—felt his agony echo inside his own bones.