The sound of the imperial orchestra resonated through the grand ballroom, its measured cadence flowing like liquid silver through the air. The delicate harmonies of violins and cellos swelled against the gilded arches, reverberating through every jewel-encrusted chandelier and polished marble pillar. That music, noble and unyielding, passed through the stained-glass windows adorned with mythic scenes of Elyndor's past glories, until it reached the shadowed gardens beyond. There, under the gaze of moonlight, a young couple stood, suspended between two worlds: the brilliance of the court behind them, and the quiet, untamed night before them.
The gentleman, bowing low in a gesture as old as chivalry itself, pressed his lips against the delicate hand of the maiden before him. His hair was white as freshly fallen snow, catching the glimmer of moonlight, while his silver eyes—so luminous they seemed forged of starlight—shone with such intensity they could blind the unguarded gaze. His lips lingered on her skin longer than propriety allowed, savoring its warmth.
And how he felt that warmth!
It was as if the very essence of her being seeped into him through that fragile touch. A soft radiance, alive, intoxicating.
The woman, the object of his fervent devotion, possessed a beauty so profound that it defied mere words. Her hair, kissed by shades of the sea, cascaded in gentle waves over her shoulders, while her turquoise eyes—clear, crystalline—spoke silently of both terror and wonder. Draped in a gown of silk and lace, every fold catching the starlight, she stood as though carved from the substance of dreams.
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP...
His heart thundered in his chest, reckless with desire, insistent as a war drum.
Calm yourself, he thought, with measured discipline.
Marin was before him. Marin, the woman whose presence alone unraveled him, whose existence tethered him more securely to this world than crown or empire ever could. Nothing—no law, no war, no divine hand—could separate him from her.
The moon bathed her hair in a soft cerulean glow, scattering delicate reflections of maritime tones upon each curled strand. A faint breeze moved through the garden, lifting her locks in a slow, delicate dance, but apart from that gentle stirring, she did not move.
She stood frozen.
Impassive.
In shock.
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP...
Her own heart betrayed her composure, hammering against her ribs as she endured the warmth of his lips upon her skin.
It was but a greeting—an ordinary salutation for a lady of noble standing. Yet the weight of that simple kiss seemed to stretch across eternity, each heartbeat echoing louder than the last.
He prolonged the gesture, refusing to release her hand, as though the fabric of time itself bent to his will.
Her turquoise eyes widened, trembling as they fixed upon him. This was no common suitor, no harmless admirer. This was the First Prince of Elyndor, the man whose name stirred both reverence and dread, the figure prophesied by whispers to bring ruin upon all.
He was not ordinary.
He was Yoham.
But how? Marin's mind reeled. Why is the First Prince Yoham?
The air seemed to vanish entirely, stolen not only by the crushing embrace of her corset but by the revelation itself. Breath fled her chest, and yet she remained trapped beneath his gaze.
With reluctant grace, Yoham parted his lips from her skin, straightening his posture. His expression, inscrutable, held the cunning glimmer of a white fox poised in the snow—beautiful, perilous, unfathomable.
"Will you not greet me as well, Marin?" he asked.
The voice that once bore gentleness, a sweetness like spring rain, now carried a deeper resonance. It was rich, grave, seductively commanding. He did not release her hand; his grip, though soft, bound her as surely as iron chains.
Marin's body betrayed her, refusing to obey her silent command to move. She stood still, transfixed, imprisoned by a thousand conflicting emotions.
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP...
"I imagine you are surprised," Yoham murmured, a shadow of amusement in his tone, "for I can read you as though your heart were written plainly before me. At the beginning, I had no wish to deceive you. Events merely unfolded as destiny willed them."
His eyes wandered for the briefest of moments, a flicker of something raw hidden beneath princely arrogance.
"But now, I desire concealment no longer. That is why I summoned this ball. All of this—" his free hand gestured faintly toward the distant music, the countless lights burning within the palace, "—is for you."
He brushed his fingers lightly against a strand of her hair, catching the luminous curl between his fingertips. The texture was silken, alive, each movement whispering temptation. Desire rose in him, a primal yearning to lean closer, to breathe in the fragrance of her, to claim her entirely. Yet restraint gripped him with equal force.
Not yet.
Not now.
Just a little longer, lest she flee in terror.
"And tell me," his voice softened, yet carried a dangerous lilt, "what thought seized you when I entered the ballroom?"
He toyed with her, prolonging her torment with calculated patience.
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP...
Her heart threatened to betray her further, each beat resounding within her ears like thunderclaps.
"You ran from the hall the instant I was announced!" His words lilted between accusation and jest. "Do you know how sorrowful that made me? Look at me—see how I adorned myself tonight, only for you!"
A smile, wicked and mischievous, played upon his lips.
He was no fool. He knew his beauty. Many in the empire whispered that Yoham outshone even his younger brother, the radiant second prince, known as the Sun of Elyndor. Yet his vanity tonight was not for the empire's court, nor for the admiration of a kingdom.
It was all for Marin.
"I-I... Yoham... No! Your Highness..." Marin stammered, her voice trembling, then faltered, falling into silence.
She, who rarely yielded to absurdities, felt helpless before the sheer impossibility of this moment.
"Call me as you always have, Marin," he pressed gently, his gaze searing into her. "I do not want you to treat me as though I were a stranger."
She tried to withdraw her hand, her last remnant of resistance.
But Yoham, sensing her intent, pulled her closer—softly, yet undeniably.
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP...
The sudden movement robbed her of balance, sending her slight frame against his chest.
Her breath caught.
In haste, Marin lifted her gaze, her face turned upward toward him, her lips parting slightly in startled protest.
"Forgive my boldness," Yoham whispered, his tone deep and unrelenting, "but I cannot release you before I am understood. Were I to let you go now, you would vanish again. Do you know how many lives—how many beasts, how many men—I struck down to return? The years bled me dry, nearly to death... Yet I endured it all for this moment. For you."
"Y-Your Highness, I... Release me..!"
I cannot push him away with my power... This man... This very man is the architect of ruin, the hand that nearly tore this world apart.
How could I have drawn near to the worst soul imaginable? And now, as I strive to remain apart from the threads of destiny, I find myself bound to its heart...
A decade has passed since I awoke in this world... The war may break at any hour.
"I told you," he cut across her thoughts, his eyes aflame, "to call me Yoham. When you ran from me, how could I possibly remain idle?"
The intensity of his stare pressed upon her with a passion so fierce that her resolve crumbled.
Her cheeks flushed with color as her gaze betrayed her, drifting to the lips of the man who held her captive in desire and dread alike.
"Marin... tell me," he whispered, lowering his head nearer to hers, "did you miss me as I missed you?"
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP...
No... it cannot be... My old companion, my former friend, is the villain who would destroy all. Worst of all, his words, his voice, his every gesture...
Does he love me? As a lover? Yoham... how could you?
I cannot believe this is happening... Yet it is. And now, what path lies before me? He is perilous, unbearably so. He is a flame, and I am but a moth drawn helplessly closer.