Eva remained on the floor, the parchment heavy in her lap, Lucarion's words turning over in her mind.
Tonight we dine together.
The statement echoed, absurd in its civility. What did that even mean? Did he expect her to sit at his table while he fed on some unfortunate human? The thought made her stomach twist.
Outrage rose, swift and clean—but she strangled it before it could show. She had been here before, in other halls, before other predators who mistook her silence for submission. Each time, she had learned. Composure was not surrender; it was a weapon. The right smile could disarm. The right pause could turn a hunter's confidence into doubt.
She would endure. She would play the part of the compliant captive—for now. Every glance could be a test, every courteous word could extract the right information. Patience was power. She would bide her time.
The God of War had not chosen this monster for her. And she would not be reduced to a vessel for his legacy.
For now, she would dine with him. Whatever that meant.
In the mirror, the gown Lucarion had chosen clung to her frame in deep burgundy, rich as spilled wine. It kissed her sunwashed skin, made the flecks of red and gold in her amber eyes burn brighter. Elegant, but not fussy. The off-the-shoulder cut left her neck bare, her hair swept up to expose it all the more. Was she the guest tonight… or the feast? A shiver traced her spine.
Before leaving, she dismissed the maids. Then her fingers went to the wood of her wrist-splints. In quick, silent movements, she carved a crude stake and slipped it between her breasts, its sharp point pressing lightly against her skin. A secret reassurance against the predator awaiting her.
The castle was alive when she stepped out. Candles burned in rows, shadows dancing along gilded walls. The scent of roasted meat and sweet sauces carried through the air—but underneath it lingered the metallic tang of blood. It clung to her tongue, made her stomach tighten.
Lucarion waited at the head of the long table, every inch a prince. Pale, composed, amethyst gaze sweeping over her as she entered, a slow smirk curling his lips.
"You look exquisite," his voice smooth.
Eva held her spine straight. "Thank you." Nothing betrayed her pulse, though it hammered beneath her ribs. She would play her role.
She stopped just shy of the chair, eyes flicking to the servant. With the smallest gesture of her hand, she halted him. Then, deliberate, she faced Lucarion.
"If I am to be your bride," she said evenly, voice steel beneath the words, "then you should court me. A husband pulls out his wife's chair."
Silence claimed the hall for a heartbeat. His amethyst eyes widened almost imperceptibly—she had caught him off guard.
Then his smirk returned, smooth and practiced. "Bold," he purred.
He stepped around the table, hand brushing the chair as he pulled it out. Leaning close enough for her ears only, he added,
"Enjoy your little victories, Eva. They cost me nothing."
She sank into the chair, chin tilting in subtle defiance.
Lucarion studied her across the candlelight, lips curving faintly.
"You surprise me. I did not expect such refinement."
"And you surprise me, Crown Prince," she replied, measured. "I did not think your kind ate… food."
"Oh, we do. Not for sustenance. But taste, pleasure—those are harder to kill than flesh."
A beat. The clink of silver. The hush of the fire.
"I imagine you have some questions. I am willing to answer them."
She set her knife down. Spine straight. Every movement deliberate.
"You have gone to great lengths to keep me here. Yet instead of enthralling me into docility, you invite me to dinner. Why?"
Leaning back, amusement flickering in his eyes, he replied,
"I would not be a worthy ruler if I abused my power. And,"—his gaze sharpened—"something tells me you would just cripple yourself again to avoid it."
Eva's knife scraped softly against the plate as she set it aside. With a casual, almost teasing motion, she reached to the center of her chest and revealed the slender stake she had stashed earlier between her breasts.
The guards' instincts flared, but a single, subtle raise of Lucarion's hand froze them mid-motion.
"I'll puncture my eardrums," she said nonchalantly, placing the makeshift weapon near her plate, and calmly resuming her meal.
His laughter broke the tension—low, rich, dangerous. Not mockery, but appreciation.
Eva watched him quietly for a moment, then spoke—her tone mild, almost conversational.
"Am I in the capital?"
His knife paused, surprise crossing his features.
"What makes you think that?"
"It was not easy," she said evenly. "The library has been curated. Someone went to a great deal of trouble to make sure it was not possible for me to place myself." Her eyes met his, unflinching. "But some things cannot be erased."
He leaned back, his tone faintly indulgent. "Knowledge is power, Eva. You have yet to earn either."
Her lips curved, small and dangerous.
"Power, is power."
For a heartbeat, her eyes flashed molten gold—so quick it could've been a trick of the candlelight.
Lucarion's smirk deepened, slow and knowing. The gold at the edge of his irises stirred—subtle, then brightening in a deliberate pulse.
The flicker of her fire meeting the chill of his command.
The silence pressed between them—taut, electric.
Then, lighter, his voice returned.
"Tell me—do you like the gown I picked for you?"
Eva looked down at the burgundy folds where they draped against her waist.
"It is beautiful," she admitted as her gaze lifted. "But if I am to remain here, should I expect to be dressed like a doll every evening—or will I be allowed to choose for myself?"
Lucarion's smirk curved faintly as he reclined in his chair.
"Of course you may choose for yourself."
Encouraged, Eva's eyes narrowed slightly, her voice crisp.
"And what else am I allowed to do for myself?"
He spread a hand lazily, as if the answer cost him nothing.
"Whatever pleases you. If you have hobbies, pursue them. Painting, gardening, music—"
"Sword fighting," she cut in.
His gaze sharpened, though his tone remained smooth.
"You are not a general here, Eva."
Her lips curved, satisfaction breaking through her calm.
"I know. My mastery is with the battle-axe. Sword fighting is just a hobby."
Lucarion tilted his head, studying her. For a moment it seemed he might refuse outright—but then his expression softened into something sly, indulgent.
"Very well. You may practice fencing. The equipment stays within the salle, under lock, where it belongs. I would not have my bride to inadvertently injure herself."
The word bride landed deliberately heavy between them.
A quick sneer ghosted across Eva's lips before she schooled her expression back into composure.
The silence stretched.
Then she broke it. "It has been a little over a month, and this is the first time I have seen you. Do you often leave for that long?"
Her tone was light, almost conversational—but her eyes were probing.
Lucarion leaned back in his chair, arrogance settling over him like a cloak.
"I leave the palace only when I must command the battlefield myself. Now that the enemy has been thoroughlycrushed," the words rolled off his tongue in enjoyment, "there is no reason for me to be away so soon."
Her jaw clenched, the grind of teeth loud in the hush of the chamber. Anger flared hot and sharp, filling the air.
Lucarion's smirk deepened. He drew in a long breath, savoring.
His hand reached for a second goblet, darker than the wine, crimson catching the candlelight. He lifted it with ease, sipping deliberately, the tang of blood mingling faintly with the scents at the table.
She pressed her lips into a thin line, refusing to give him any further satisfaction. She would endure, just a little longer.
When the last of the food was cleared, Lucarion leaned back, expression unreadable. "That will be all for tonight," he said, his voice smooth but final. "You may retire."
Eva gave a small, curt nod. She rose, careful not to stumble in the tight dress or betray the pulse of anger still thrumming in her veins. Every step toward the door was a victory of discipline over exhaustion.
Once the door to her chambers closed behind her, the tension of the evening hit all at once. Every muscle ached from holding herself so rigidly at the table. Her throat burned, still tender from the puncture a weeks past. Her wrists throbbed, her stomach churned from the small meal she'd forced down. Sweat prickled her skin, sticky and uncomfortable in the stifling heat of the room.
She undressed slowly. Sliding into bed, she let the mattress cradle her, though the coil of restlessness in her chest refused to unwind. Even in the hush of her chamber, the tension remained—a reminder of his presence.