[WARNING: THIS IS A DARK FANTASY ROMANCE. The story contains dark themes, including violence and tragedy, which may not be suitable for all readers.]
The temple trembled beneath shadow. Candles flickered, their thin flames twitching like frightened whispers.
Rifa clutched her newborn to her chest, knuckles white, lips shaking.
"Goddess…" she gasped. "Protect her from misery."
The statue's eyes flared. White fire erupted, burning shadows into molten shapes. Rifa threw up her hands, shielding her face—
And she saw.
A girl. Ariel. A woman in white, standing within a circle of fire. Across from her, a man clad in blackened armor, his sword dripping, every edge gleaming like a promise of death. Maximilliam.
Flames mirrored in his eyes, the world would call him a monster. Yet Ariel stepped forward. Her hand lifted—not trembling. When their fingers touched, the blood shrank back, fading like mist. He was no beast then, but a man—broken, raw.
Rifa's knees gave out. Her tears struck the stone like rain on steel.
---
Years later.
The palace gardens breathed under twilight. Ariel stood alone, shoulders taut, eyes fixed on nothing and everything. Her fingers curled, nails biting into her palms.
Memory pressed against her ribs. She was younger—trapped in a corridor swallowed by shadow. Blades flashed. Death came for her with a metallic scream.
Then a greater shadow fell. Steel moved faster than thought. Bodies crumpled one by one before she glimpsed a face. A hand reached toward her—she fled, heart pounding, never looking back.
The man's name remained hidden.
Until the day she was forced to marry him.
Maximilliam. Duke. Murderer. Stranger.
His rare smiles cut through her hatred, sharp as broken glass. And somehow—beneath fear, beneath loathing—her chest ached.
From the empire's depths, another figure rose. Rifael. His eyes burned like coals, his hands stretching toward her as though to seize her very soul.
"Saintess… or bastard," he hissed. "She is mine."
---
The night came.
Flames devoured the palace walls. Smoke clawed at the sky. Steel screamed through air. Ariel stumbled, pressed close to Maximilliam as assassins poured from every shadow.
His sword was a storm—every strike a red arc, every body a testament to his wrath. She ducked, rolled, pressed to the cold stone, the heat of his blade passing just inches from her hair. Screams rose behind her, swallowed by fire and steel.
Through the chaos, she followed him. Every movement, every swing, every breath—a rhythm of protection. She didn't need to understand; her body already knew. She was safe because he was near.
A cold laugh cut through the flames. Rifael.
"Fall, beast. Fall—so I may have her."
Maximilliam faltered. Blood poured down his armor in rivulets, soaking leather and steel. He staggered, lungs burning, body breaking. Yet he did not bend. Not once did he allow her to bear the danger.
The last assassin fell. And then—so did he.
Ariel caught him before his body struck the stone. His weight burned in her arms, his blood soaking her gown. His lips brushed her ear.
"Don't… cry. Live."
Then he slipped from her grasp.
The night froze. Ariel's scream tore across the gardens, up into the starless heavens.
From the shadows, Rifael's laughter lingered, curling into every corner. A promise.
This was only the beginning.