"Duke Rensic, return to the palace tomorrow. Retrieve the letter I sent. Tell them the king they wanted gone is already dead."
Lucan's final order echoed in Rensic Albrecht's mind as he sat on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, staring into the flickering candlelight.
He hadn't slept.
He wasn't sure if it was the weight of Lucan's words—or the strange pull he felt toward the girl in the east wing.
He wanted to meet her.
Not now. Not tomorrow.
Someday—when fate decided their paths should cross.
He leaned back against the couch, eyes drifting to the ceiling.
"She's something far more opposite than the prophecies foretold," Lucan had said.
And that unsettled Rensic more than he cared to admit.
The prophecies had been clear. The Saintess would rise from the Silver Lake, marked by the divine. She would bring salvation and ruin. No middle ground. No ambiguity.
And yet Lucan hesitated.
Why?
What had he seen in her eyes that made him pause?
What had she said that made him question everything?
Rensic clenched his fists, frustration simmering beneath his skin. He had stood beside Lucan through war, betrayal, and the blood-soaked climb to the throne. He had watched his king make impossible choices with ruthless clarity.
Lucan was not a man who faltered.
But the girl—the Saintess—had shaken something in him.
Rensic didn't doubt Lucan's plan.
He doubted her.
He didn't trust the Saintess.
Not yet.
And until he saw her for himself, he would keep one truth close to his chest:
If she was meant to bring ruin, then he would be ready to stop her.
*******
Lucan sat in his room, deep in thought, unable to sleep. It was past midnight, and there he was—still in his chair, staring into the fireplace, watching the flames flicker and fade.
He tilted his head slightly, listening.
No sound from the next room.
Elira hadn't stirred.
He stood and walked toward the connecting door—not the main entrance, but the quiet passage between their chambers.
He opened it slowly.
Darkness swallowed him.
No candlelight. Only the soft glow of moonlight spilling through the window, painting silver lines across the floor.
On the bed lay Elira, sleeping peacefully, her arms wrapped around a pillow. He remembered noticing that habit before—how she always clung to something in her sleep, as if anchoring herself to a world she didn't trust.
Lucan stepped closer, careful not to make a sound.
She looked… ordinary. Not divine. Not dangerous.
Just a girl lost in a place she didn't belong.
He studied her face, the way her brow furrowed slightly even in sleep. Like she was dreaming something she didn't want to see.
She's not what they said she'd be, he thought.
And yet, she was here. From the Silver Lake. Wearing the pendant.
Lucan stared for a moment longer before turning to leave, but paused at the door.
"I'll find out what you are," he whispered, voice barely audible. "And if you're the Saintess… I'll be the one to end it."
He closed the door behind him, the moonlight fading as silence reclaimed the room.
Lucan was back in his room when the pain struck.
It came suddenly—sharp, blinding—like his mind was being split open from the inside. He clutched the armchair, one hand gripping his head, trying not to scream.
But it was too much.
"She is the Saintess. Why are you hesitating?"
The voice echoed inside his skull, cold and furious.
"You dare defy me? That woman will kill you—and she'll kill me too."
"Ugh!" Lucan cried out, his knees buckling. His nails dug into his scalp as the pain surged again, relentless.
"You've gained everything—power, throne, dignity—and yet you resist my plan? Do you think I'll stay silent? You are nothing without me inside you!"
Lucan collapsed to the floor, gasping, sweat beading on his brow.
"I'm not resisting," he whispered through clenched teeth. "I'm… calculating."
"She must die. You promised."
Lucan's breath came in ragged bursts. "I will kill her. But not yet."
The voice hissed, retreating slightly.
"Then don't wait too long. Whether she's the Saintess or not—you must kill her."
And then, the pain peaked.
Lucan's body went limp, his vision blurring as the firelight dimmed around him. The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across Lucan's motionless form.
His breath was shallow, his body limp—collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. The marble beneath him was cold, unforgiving, but he didn't stir.
In the silence, the pendant in Elira's room pulsed once.
Then again.
Elira sat upright in bed, clutching the necklace tightly.
What's happening to this necklace?
Her heart raced, and though she didn't know why, she felt it—something had happened.
Then she heard it.
A groan coming from the next room.
Her breath caught.
Something was wrong.
She slid off the bed, her bare feet meeting the chilled floor, and crept toward the connecting door. Her fingers hovered over the handle, uncertain.
She shouldn't care.
She shouldn't move.
But the pendant burned against her skin, and her instincts screamed louder than reason—as if demanding her to act.
She opened the door.
Moonlight spilled into Lucan's room, revealing him collapsed near the fireplace, his body twisted in pain, his face pale and damp with sweat.
Elira froze.
The tyrant king—feared, ruthless, untouchable—was broken before her.
She stepped closer, cautiously, as if approaching a wounded beast.
"Lucan?" she whispered.
No response.
She knelt beside him, unsure whether to help or flee. Her hand hovered near his shoulder, trembling.
And then, his eyes snapped open.
They glowed faintly—silver, unnatural.
Elira gasped.
Lucan blinked once, twice, and the glow faded.
He groaned, trying to sit up, disoriented.
"You…" he rasped.
Elira hesitated, her breath caught in her throat.
Lucan was clearly not okay. He was in pain—real, terrifying pain—and Elira had no idea why. The silver glow in his eyes… it was beyond anything she could understand.
She turned, ready to call for help.
But before she could move, Lucan's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, his grip weak but desperate.
"D—don't…" he croaked, his voice barely audible.
Then he vomited a stream of blood.
Elira froze, horrified by the scene before her.
"Stay… here…" he whispered, barely audible.
And then, his eyes rolled back.
His grip loosened.
Lucan collapsed again, unconscious.
Elira remained frozen, his blood staining her wrist, her heart pounding like a war drum.
She looked down at him—this man who ruled with iron and fire—now broken, bleeding, and begging.
Elira knelt beside Lucan, her breath uneven, her thoughts racing.
He was unconscious, blood still fresh on his lips and staining the marble floor beneath him. She didn't know what had happened—only that he was in pain, and no one else was coming.
She looked around the room, then down at her own clothes. Without hesitation, she tore a strip from the hem of her nightgown and gently wiped the blood from his mouth. Another piece followed, which she used to clean the floor, her movements careful, deliberate.
She tried to lift him, but his body was too heavy, too broad for her to carry.
So she did what she could.
She fetched a blanket from his bed and a pillow from hers. She placed the pillow beneath his head, then wrapped the blanket around him, tucking it close to his chest. It wasn't much, but it was warmth. It was care.
Then she sat beside him.
And for the first time, she allowed herself to truly look at him.
Lucan—the tyrant king, the man who had conquered cities and silenced courts—lay sleeping beside her, his face softened by unconsciousness. The tension that usually gripped his brow was gone. His jaw, always clenched in command, now rested in quiet stillness.
He looked… human.
Peaceful.
Almost vulnerable.
Elira watched him, her fingers still curled around the pendant at her neck. It no longer pulsed. No longer burned.
Elira sat beside Lucan, watching him in silence.
Wrapped in the blanket she'd placed around him, his breathing had steadied, the pain seemingly passed. The blood was gone from his lips, wiped clean by her trembling hands. His face, once twisted in agony, now rested in quiet peace.
And for the first time, she allowed herself to truly look at him.
She had seen him before—commanding, cold, terrifying. But never like this.
His silver-white hair spilled across the pillow like strands of moonlight, catching the glow from the fireplace. It shimmered with an otherworldly hue, unlike anything she'd ever seen in her world. Not in real life.
Only in fantasy novels.
Only in stories where kings were cursed and destinies were written in stars.
And now… she was in one.
The realization struck her like a whisper in the dark.
She was living inside the kind of tale she used to read beneath blankets, heart racing with wonder and fear. And Lucan—this broken, bleeding king—was no longer just a name in a book. He was real. Tangible. Beautiful in a way that felt unreal.
His features were sharp, regal, but softened now in sleep. The tension that usually gripped his brow had vanished. His lips, often curled in command or disdain, now rested gently, almost vulnerable.
Elira's breath caught.
She didn't understand him.
She didn't trust him.
But in this moment, she couldn't deny it—he was breathtaking.
And terrifying.
And utterly impossible.
She reached out, almost without thinking, and brushed a strand of hair from his face.
He didn't stir.
So she stayed.
Watching.
Wondering.
And waiting—for the story to turn its next page.
******
Lucan stirred as morning light crept through the curtains, casting a soft golden hue across the room.
His body ached, but the pain had dulled—no longer sharp, no longer consuming. He blinked slowly, adjusting to the light, his breath steady.
And then he saw her.
Elira.
She was sitting beside him, her back leaned gently against the edge of the bed, her head tilted slightly to the side. Her eyes were closed, her breathing calm. She was asleep—peacefully, quietly—as if the chaos of the night had never touched her.
Lucan didn't move.
He simply watched.
Her hair fell loosely around her shoulders, catching the morning light like strands of silk. Her hands rested in her lap, one still faintly stained with dried blood—his blood.
She had stayed.
She hadn't called for help.
She hadn't run.
And something about that stirred a strange warmth in his chest.
His gaze lingered on her face, soft and serene, untouched by fear or judgment. For a moment, he forgot the prophecy. Forgot the voice. Forgot the war inside him.
She looked like someone from a dream.
Or a memory.
Or a story he used to believe in before the crown turned everything to ash.
Lucan let his head rest back against the pillow, eyes still on her.
He didn't know why she stayed.
But he was glad she did.
Elira glanced at him, eyes wide with surprise, before turning toward the main door.
Without a word, she stood and rushed through the connecting door, her footsteps quick and light. She needed to get out of that room—away from him, away before any servant saw them together.
Lucan watched her disappear, confusion flickering across his face.
Then the main door creaked open.
A servant stepped inside, tray in hand, and froze at the sight of His Majesty lying on the floor, wrapped in a blanket.
Lucan's eyes narrowed.
"How dare you barge in without my permission?" he snapped, his voice sharp despite the lingering weakness.
The servant dropped to his knees, bowing low until his forehead nearly touched the floor.
"My deepest apologies, Your Majesty," he stammered. "I didn't mean to intrude—I thought you were still in bed."
Lucan sat up slowly, brushing the blanket aside. His body ached, but his mind was already racing.
"Leave the tray and get out," he growled. "Before I decide to separate your head from your shoulders."
"Y-yes, Your Majesty." The servant placed the tray on the nearest table and hurried out, closing the door behind him.
Lucan leaned back against the armchair, his gaze drifting toward the connecting door Elira had fled through.
He let out a sigh and wiped his face with both hands.