But just as he swung—
"I'm not a Saintess! I'm just an unemployed girl!"
Her voice echoed in his ears—fresh, vivid, as if she'd just said it.
Lucan froze.
The blade stopped inches from her skin.
His hand trembled.
And in that moment, Elira's eyes fluttered open.
She blinked up at him, confused, then saw the sword.
"…Are you seriously trying to kill me in my sleep?" she croaked.
Lucan stepped back, jaw clenched, sword still raised.
Elira squinted. "You know, most people wake up to birds chirping. I get a death attempt. Classic."
Lucan saw the fear in her eyes, though she tried to mask it. Her hands trembled slightly, betraying her calm facade—but she managed to still them, forcing herself to appear unfazed.
She stared back at him, chin lifted, defiant even in the face of death.
Lucan's grip on the sword loosened.
She wasn't begging.
She wasn't crying.
She was afraid—but she refused to show it.
That, more than anything, made him hesitate.
Elira swallowed hard, her voice low. "If you're going to kill me, just do it. But don't pretend you're still deciding."
Lucan didn't move.
The wind shifted, brushing past them like a whisper.
He lowered the sword.
Not because she asked.
But because something inside him recoiled at the thought of ending her life while she stared him down like that.
"I hate noise," he muttered, turning away. "And you're loud even when you're quiet."
Elira blinked. "Wait... Just because I was noisy while sleeping, you were about to strike me with your sword?"
Lucan didn't answer.
He walked back to where he planned to build the fire, leaving her tied to the tree—alive, confused, and still very loud in his thoughts.
Elira watched him go, then muttered, "This guy needs therapy. Or a nap. Or both."
She shifted against the rope, sighing. "I can't trust him. Not even for a second. I shouldn't let my guard down."
Her fingers brushed the rough bark behind her, grounding herself in the moment. The adrenaline was fading, but the unease lingered like a shadow.
She glanced toward Lucan, who was now crouched by the firewood, methodically arranging sticks like they were enemies to be conquered. His movements were precise, controlled—too controlled.
He hesitated, she thought. But that doesn't mean he won't try again.
The prophecy echoed in her mind, though she didn't fully understand it. Saintess. Power. Death.
She scoffed quietly. "I'm not a Saintess. I'm just a girl who failed her job interview and somehow landed in a fantasy nightmare."
Lucan struck flint against steel, sparks dancing in the fading light.
Elira leaned her head back against the tree and whispered to herself, "I need to find a way out. Before his silence turns into a decision."
Darkness began to settle, swallowing the edges of the field in shadow. Elira sat beside the tree, arms wrapped tightly around her knees, her chin resting on them. She was quiet now, her usual fire dimmed, eyes fixed on the flickering glow of the campfire in the distance.
The silence was heavy, broken only by the soft crackle of burning wood.
Then—footsteps.
She tensed.
A shadow loomed, and a piece of roasted meat was held out in front of her.
She looked up.
Lucan.
"Eat or not?" he asked, voice flat, unreadable.
Elira stared at the meat, then at him. "Is this poisoned?"
Lucan blinked once. "If it was, I wouldn't waste it on you."
She narrowed her eyes. "Wow. That's almost sweet."
He didn't respond.
She took the meat cautiously, sniffed it, then took a bite. Her stomach growled in approval.
Lucan turned to leave.
"Thanks," she muttered, mouth full.
He paused for a beat, then walked back to the fire without a word.
Elira chewed slowly, watching his back.
Still a lunatic, she thought. But at least he feeds me.
A moment passed. Elira was full now—finally—and maybe Lucan was too, though he didn't show it. Just like everything else, he kept even hunger tucked behind that cold exterior.
"Early in the morning, we move," Lucan said, his voice low and sharp. "Get up early—or I'll end your life."
He didn't even glance at her.
Elira blinked, stunned by the casual cruelty of the threat. "Wow," she muttered. "Good morning to you too."
Lucan continued tending to the fire, his back turned, as if her existence was just another chore.
She hugged her knees tighter, staring at the flames. This man has the emotional warmth of a frozen dagger, she thought.
Still, she knew better than to test him.
The fire crackled between them, throwing flickers of light across his armor and her bound wrists. The silence stretched, heavy and brittle.
Elira shifted slightly, trying to find comfort against the rough bark of the tree. Her thoughts wandered—back to her room, her books, her quiet life. The fantasy she used to escape into had become her prison.
And the villain?
He was real.
She glanced at Lucan again. He was sharpening his blade now, methodical and silent.
I need to survive, she thought. Not just until morning. But long enough to figure out why I'm here—and how to get out.
*****
In the grand halls of House Emberlain, unease crept like smoke beneath the gilded ceilings. News had arrived—urgent, grim, and cloaked in uncertainty. His Majesty was missing.
Marquis Emberlain, a man carved from discipline and silence, strode through the corridors without hesitation. He did not knock when he reached his daughter's chamber. He simply entered.
Tiana Emberlain, his most beloved daughter and the fiancée of King Lucan of Velmoria, sat before her mirror, combing her silky brown hair. The room was quiet, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight. Her reflection was serene—until his voice shattered the calm.
"Tiana," he said, his tone grave. "His Majesty is missing."
A loud thud echoed through the room. The brush slipped from her hand and hit the floor.
She turned, her face pale with shock. "What?"
Marquis Emberlain's expression remained unreadable. "The palace is in disarray. No one knows where he's gone. The guards are silent. The council is panicking."
Tiana's breath caught. Her hand gripped the edge of the vanity. "Lucan?"
"Yes, He's missing," the Marquis said quietly.
Silence fell between them.
She stepped forward, her voice trembling. "This can't be happening. Not now. Not when everything was finally coming together."
Her father's gaze softened—just slightly. "You must be strong, Tiana. You are not just my daughter. You are the future queen."
Tiana looked past him, toward the window where the moon hung heavy in the sky.
Marquis Emberlain studied his daughter for a long moment. Her words hung in the air—sharp, unyielding.
"Father, we must find him. At any cost," she said, her voice trembling with urgency. "He's the only one who can make me queen. I am meant to wear that crown."
There was no fear in her eyes now. Only fire.
The Marquis stepped closer, his expression unreadable. "You speak like a ruler already," he said quietly. "But remember, Tiana—crowns are not given. They are taken. And they come with blood."
Tiana lifted her chin. "Then I'll take mine. Whatever it may cost, Father. And Lucan should be there to see it."
A flicker of something passed through her father's gaze—pride, perhaps. Or concern.
"You are your mother's daughter," he murmured. "Ambitious. Unrelenting. Dangerous, if crossed."
She didn't flinch.
"You know me, Father," she said, her voice silk over steel. "I am the most beautiful woman in this empire. And beauty—true beauty—deserves the most powerful things in this world. Power so great that no one can stand against it."
She smiled then.
Wickedly.
Like a queen already crowned.
But then, just like that, her wicked smile faded—replaced by a cold, calculating stare.
"So, Father," she said, voice like ice. "Find him for me. He is the kind of king I want to have."
Marquis Emberlain didn't respond immediately. He studied her, as if trying to decide whether she was still his daughter—or something else entirely.
"A king you want," he echoed. "Not a king you love?"
Tiana's gaze didn't waver. "Love is for poets and fools. I want a king who knows how to rule. One who understands power. One who understands me."
The Marquis nodded slowly, a shadow passing over his features. "Then let us hope Lucan still breathes. For Velmoria's sake—and yours."
He turned and left the room, his footsteps echoing down the marble corridor.
Tiana remained still, her reflection staring back at her from the mirror.
He is mine, she thought. And if he's lost… I will find him. Or I will build a throne from the ashes he leaves behind.
******
The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the clearing. Elira hadn't moved from her spot beneath the tree, arms wrapped around her knees. Lucan sat a few feet away, sharpening his blade with slow, deliberate strokes.
Neither spoke.
The silence between them wasn't peaceful—it was watchful. Like two predators waiting to see who would blink first.
Elira finally broke it.
"You always threaten people like that?" she asked, voice dry.
Lucan didn't look up. "Only the ones who forget who I am."
She frowned. "So I matter?"
He paused, then resumed sharpening. "You're still breathing, aren't you?"
Elira scoffed. "Charming."
Lucan glanced at her then, just briefly. "You talk too much for someone who's supposed to be broken."
Elira's eyes narrowed. "And you're too quiet for someone who rules a kingdom."
That made him stop.
He looked at her fully now, eyes dark and unreadable. "I don't need to shout to be obeyed."
"No," she said, leaning forward. "But you act like the crown is a burden. Like you wear it out of duty, not desire."
Lucan stood, sliding the blade into its sheath. "Sleep. We move at dawn."
Elira watched him disappear into the shadows beyond the firelight.
He didn't deny it, she thought.
And that was enough.
That night, sleep came slowly.
But when it did, it dragged Elira deep.
She was no longer beneath a tree. No longer in a kingdom ruled by a cold-eyed king.
She was back in her room.
The one with the stacks of unread books. The broken fan. The soft hum of city life just beyond the window.
She was curled up in her blanket, phone glowing in her hand. Throne of Ash and Vengeance still open. Still waiting.
But something was different.
The air shimmered. Her books whispered. The screen pulsed like a heartbeat.
She stood, barefoot on the wooden floor, and walked to the mirror.
Her reflection stared back—tired, uncertain, but familiar.
Then the mirror rippled.
And the reflection changed.
She saw herself in armor. A blade in her hand. Her eyes glowing with power she didn't recognize.
Behind her, Velmoria burned.
She gasped.
The mirror shattered.
She fell—
And landed in a field of ash.
Lucan stood there, watching her. Not as a king. But as something older. Something darker.
"You were never meant to be ordinary," he said.
Elira tried to speak, but her voice was gone.
The wind howled.
And then—
She woke.
Gasping. Heart racing.
The fire was low. Lucan was gone.
But the dream lingered.
And in her hand, clenched tight without her knowing, was a single black feather.
It was dawn.
The sky blushed with pale gold, and the forest stirred with the soft rustle of waking leaves. Elira stood off to the side, her gaze fixed on the black feather in her hand. It felt heavier than it should—like it carried meaning she hadn't yet unlocked.
"Get up now," Lucan said, breaking the silence.
She looked up. He was standing beside the horse, one hand outstretched toward her.
Elira blinked. "Aren't you going to ride first?"
Lucan's expression didn't change. "You get up first. I'll ride behind you."
She hesitated, searching his face for a hint of softness. There was none.
Lucan saw her hesitation.
Without a word, he stepped forward and seized her waist.
Elira gasped, stunned by the suddenness of his touch—but before she could protest, he lifted her effortlessly and placed her onto the horse's saddle.
Then, with practiced ease, he mounted behind her.
She was about to glance back at him, but he hesitated—just enough to make her pause.
The warmth of him at her back was startling. His presence—solid, quiet, and unyielding—wrapped around her like armor.
She didn't speak.
Neither did he.
The black feather remained clenched in her hand, hidden from view.
And as the horse began to move, Elira realized something unsettling.
This was awkward.
She had never felt this in her world—never been this close to a man, especially like this. It wasn't a hug, not really. But it felt… different. Intimate in a way she didn't know how to name.
"W-why am I in front?" she asked, struggling to hide the stutter in her voice. "I—I should be behind you."
Lucan's voice was calm, almost bored. "Just to make sure you won't jump off this horse and escape."
She turned her head sharply at that—but immediately regretted it.
Their faces were close.
Too close.
Her breath caught as her eyes met his—dark, unreadable, and far too steady.
She looked away quickly, heart thudding.
Lucan said nothing.
But she could feel the smirk he didn't show.
Ahhhhhh… Elira screamed inside her head. Why did I do that? That was too close.
She clenched her fists, trying to sweep away the strange feeling—the one she didn't want to name. It curled in her chest like smoke, unfamiliar and unwelcome.
This wasn't her world.
This wasn't her story.
And Lucan… Lucan was not someone to feel anything for.
He will be my killer, she reminded herself. Yes. He will be.
She stared ahead, jaw tight, the black feather still hidden in her grip.
Behind her, Lucan remained silent.
But his presence was impossible to ignore.