After two and a half days of relentless riding, they finally reached the countryside by the sea.
The air was different here—saltier, cooler, touched by the wind that rolled off the waves. The distant cry of gulls echoed above the cliffs, and the scent of brine clung to the breeze.
Lucan recognized the place instantly.
Berlinton.
Once a proud coastal stronghold, now a city under his rule. He had seized it years ago in a campaign that left its walls scorched and its leaders broken. The people still whispered about that day—about the king who came not with mercy, but with fire.
Now, Berlinton belonged to him.
And everyone who lived within its borders knew his name.
Feared it.
As they reached the entrance gate, Lucan slid down from the horse with practiced ease. The guards at the gate stiffened at the sight of him, then bowed low without a word.
They knew him.
Which meant this place was well within his power.
And that also meant… Elira was deep inside the territory of the man who might one day kill her.
She tightened her grip on the saddle, her knuckles pale. Fear bloomed inside her, quiet but relentless, as she remained seated, watching the exchange.
She could feel it—the weight of his presence here. The way the city seemed to hold its breath as he passed.
This wasn't just a ruler.
This was a man carved from war and silence.
And Berlinton was his proof.
As they entered, the townspeople had already gathered in the square.
They bowed low—foreheads nearly touching the earth—as if kissing the ground itself in reverence. But it wasn't devotion that filled the air.
It was fear.
Thick and silent.
"Do the people here know you?" Elira asked, breaking the silence between them. She already knew the answer, but asked anyway—for clarity, or perhaps comfort.
Lucan didn't bother to respond. He rode through the crowd like a storm held in check, his gaze sweeping over them without a flicker of emotion.
From the edge of the gathering, a man stepped forward. His robes were clean, his posture straight—but his hands trembled at his sides.
"Welcome, Your Majesty," he said, voice steady but strained. "May I ask… what brings you to Berlinton without prior notice? Had we known, we would have prepared for your arrival."
He spoke without a trace of fear in his tone.
But his face betrayed him.
Pale. Tight. Eyes darting, as if searching for escape.
Lucan dismounted slowly, his boots hitting the ground with finality. Elira followed, pulled along by the chain.
"I don't need permission to walk my own land," he said, voice low and cold. "And I don't need preparation. I need silence. Prepare my room—and everything I require."
The man bowed again, deeper this time.
Elira watched behind Lucan, her heart thudding.
As the man moved to the side to give way to His Majesty, his gaze flicked toward Elira.
Surprise flashed across his face—brief, sharp—before he quickly masked it.
"Your Majesty," he said, bowing once more, "pardon my intrusion… may I ask, who is the woman with you?"
Lucan turned his head, his gaze settling on Elira.
She felt it—like a weight pressing against her chest.
"She is my prisoner," he said, voice calm, almost casual. "Drag her."
And that he take his eyes off to her, but before he took a step away, he whispered something to the man.
The man nodded slowly, though his eyes lingered on Elira a moment longer.
She didn't move.
Didn't speak.
But inside, her thoughts churned.
Prisoner, she echoed silently. Not guest. Not companion. Just a prisoner.
And somehow, that truth felt colder than the sea wind curling around her.
She didn't move.
Lucan approached her, his expression unreadable.
"Get down from there," he demanded.
Elira dismounted from the horse, landing with a soft thud on the ground.
Without warning, Lucan leaned in—his head dipping close to her left side, startling both Elira and the steward.
He whispered in her ear, voice low and sharp.
"In this town, I hold power. Try escaping, and I'll show you my cruelty."
Then he straightened, stepping back with cold precision.
"Escort my most treasured prisoner to her room," he ordered.
As the guards took hold of her arms and began to drag her away, Elira caught one last glimpse of Lucan's devilish smile as he turned to walk through the crowd.
She didn't care who was watching. Fear had long since drained from her chest, replaced now by a simmering irritation.
"Lucan!" she called out, loud and clear.
Heads snapped up from their bows. Gasps echoed through the square. No one had ever dared speak the king's name aloud—let alone shout it. Even whispers behind closed doors risked beheading.
"Ruthless Lucan!" she repeated, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Or should I say, His Majesty the Overdramatic Threat Machine?"
Lucan paused mid-step.
Slowly, he turned back toward her, his gaze narrowing like a blade.
The guards froze.
A child dropped a wooden toy.
His face darkened, but Elira didn't flinch. If he'd wanted her dead, he'd have done it the first time he had the chance.
She smirked. "What? Too long for a title? I can shorten it to 'King Ego' if that helps."
Lucan didn't respond.
But the twitch in his jaw said enough.
Elira opened her mouth to add another title—something about his brooding stare and tragic hair—but the steward quickly stepped forward, flustered and pale.
"Please," the servant said to the guards, voice tight with panic, "take her away. Quickly."
The guards didn't hesitate.
Elira was swept down the street, still half-twisting as she shouted, "I'm just saying! If you're going to imprison someone, at least offer snacks! I'm starving from being your captive!"
******
Lucan was resting in his tub, the warm water laced with rose petals and perfumed oil. Steam curled around him like silk, softening the edges of the stone chamber.
But his thoughts were anything but calm.
Elira.
The Saintess who dared to insult him—in front of his people. She had called him by name as if it meant nothing.
Ruthless Lucan.
Sarcasm thrown like daggers. Defiance worn like armor. Mockery delivered with the ease of someone who didn't fear death.
Irritation stirred in his chest.
Then—
He laughed.
Soft at first. Then louder. Cunning. Sharp. The sound echoed off the marble walls, unsettling the silence.
It lasted a full minute before his face shifted—softening into something unreadable. Serious. Still.
That woman…
That Saintess had stirred something in him.
Not just defiance.
Interest.
He could have killed her the moment she spoke his name. Insulting the king was reason enough. But he hadn't.
There was something about her—something that made him hesitate. Something that kept his sword sheathed when it should have been drawn.
Lucan leaned back, eyes half-lidded.
"She's trouble," he murmured.
Then smirked.
But you do enjoy trouble, a voice in his mind whispered.
A thought crept in as he sank deeper into the bath, rose petals drifting around him like silent witnesses.
It would be a waste to kill her instantly.
Better to keep her close. Watch her unravel. Let her crumble in fear.
This damned life had long since dulled for him—power, obedience, silence. All predictable. All boring.
But Elira?
She was unpredictable.
Defiant.
Alive.
Lucan smirked, the scent of perfume oil curling around him like temptation.
"That would be fine," he murmured. "And when I grow bored… that's when I'll kill her."
His voice was calm. Almost amused.
"That would fit perfectly with her vow to obey me."
He tilted his head back, eyes half-lidded.
A punishment.
A distraction.
A Saintess who dared to speak his name with sarcasm and fire.
Lucan chuckled softly.
Let her fight. Let her speak. Let her burn.
Until he decided it was time to snuff her out.
******
Elira stepped inside.
The chained door closed behind her with a soft thud.
She was alone.
And yet, she could still feel Lucan's presence—like a shadow that refused to leave.
She looked around the room: bare walls, a stiff bed, a single window facing the cliffs.
No chains.
But no freedom either. She was a prisoner in a prison room.
Elira let out a long, theatrical sigh and flopped onto the bed.
"Oh, wonderful," she muttered. "Locked in a stone box by King Ego, the Walking Threat."
She sat up, glaring at the ceiling like it owed her an apology. "Lucan the Ruthless. Lucan the Brooding. Lucan the 'I'll kill you when the time comes.' Honestly, does he rehearse those lines in front of a mirror?"
She stood and paced the room, arms crossed. "I bet he does. Probably with dramatic lighting and a wind machine. 'I hold power in this town,'" she mimicked in a deep voice, "'Try escaping, and I'll show you my cruelty.' Ugh. Someone get that man a hobby."
She paused by the window, staring out at the cliffs. "Maybe knitting. Or gardening. Something that doesn't involve threatening women with chains and dramatic exits."
She turned back to the room and flopped onto the bed again. "And what kind of royal prison doesn't come with snacks? I insulted a king, got dragged through a town square, and now I'm starving. Where's the prisoner welcome basket? Grapes? Cheese? A sarcastic note from the chef?"
Silence answered her.
Elira rolled onto her side, muttering to herself. "If I survive this, I'm starting a revolution. Step one: mandatory snack carts in all dungeons."
Just as Elira was mid-rant about snack carts and dungeon hospitality, the door creaked open.
She sat up sharply, half-expecting Lucan himself to stride in with a sword and a fresh threat.
Instead, a young servant stepped in, arms full of a silver tray stacked with bread, cheese, fruit, and—was that honey-glazed meat?
Elira blinked. "Wait… is this real food? Not stale bread and regret?"
The servant bowed quickly, clearly nervous. "His Majesty ordered it for you."
She narrowed her eyes. "Lucan did?"
The servant nodded, setting the tray down on the small table by the window.
Elira stood slowly, arms crossed. "Let me guess. He's trying to soften me up before the next dramatic threat. 'Eat well, Saintess, so you have strength to tremble later.'"
The servant looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor.
Elira picked up a grape and popped it into her mouth. "Well, if I'm going to be insulted and imprisoned, I might as well do it on a full stomach."
She grabbed a piece of cheese and pointed it at the servant. "Tell His Majesty the Overdramatic Threat Machine that his prisoner appreciates the snacks. But next time, maybe add chocolate. Or a note. Something poetic. He seems the type."
The servant bowed again, nearly tripping over his own feet as he hurried out.
Elira flopped back onto the bed, chewing thoughtfully.
"Not bad," she muttered. "Still not freedom. But definitely tastier."