Elira stood by the window of her room, the morning light casting soft shadows across the floor. Her fingers curled around the pendant at her neck, its surface cool now—silent, as if the storm from last night had politely packed its bags and left.
The pendant Lucan had given her wasn't just jewelry. It had magic. Definitely not the kind you'd find in a merchant's stall between scented oils and questionable love potions.
She gazed down into the courtyard below.
Two figures walked side by side, their steps purposeful, their presence commanding.
One wore a warrior's suit—polished armor that gleamed beneath the sun—and a flowing blue cloak that rippled behind him like a dramatic stage curtain. His posture was proud, his movements sharp, like someone who knew exactly how much he sparkled in daylight.
She didn't recognize him.
But he walked beside Lucan. Maybe a close servant. Or a knight. Or someone who had a very good tailor.
Lucan looked like his usual self again—so different from the fragile, fevered man she'd seen last night. Regal attire, composed expression, the kind of walk that said, Yes, I'm the king, and yes, I know you're watching.
Elira watched them closely, her heart unsettled.
Who is that man? When did he arrive? Is he a companion? A bodyguard? A walking chandelier?
After a brief exchange, the man in the warrior's suit bowed to Lucan, then mounted his horse with practiced ease. His entourage followed, all equally polished and serious.
Elira's eyes narrowed.
She recognized one of the men who bowed to him—a count she'd seen before, the one who had welcomed them upon arrival.
Okay, so he's important. Very important. Count-bowing important.
As the man and his soldiers departed, Lucan glanced in her direction.
It was brief—barely a flicker—but enough to make Elira flinch and instinctively step back, as if caught peeking through a neighbor's window.
Then he turned and walked back inside, following the count and the servants without a word.
Elira exhaled.
Well, that wasn't ominous at all.
---
Two days passed.
Elira remained confined to her room. Only servants came and went, delivering meals and tending to the fire. None spoke unless spoken to. None lingered.
She sat slumped at the round table, chin resting on her folded arms, boredom gnawing at her like a persistent mosquito.
But it wasn't just boredom.
It was the silence.
Not the peaceful kind—but the kind that felt suspicious. Like the quiet before someone drops a chandelier on your head.
Lucan hadn't come.
No poetic notes slipped under her door.
No sudden barging in.
No cryptic remarks or teasing glances.
It was as if she'd been downgraded from "mysterious guest" to "forgotten furniture."
The last time she tried to speak to him through the wall—soft words pressed into the quiet—he hadn't responded.
And she knew he was there.
She'd heard his footsteps. Felt the shift in the air when he passed. She even coughed dramatically once, just in case he needed a cue.
Still nothing.
What is with him? she thought, fingers curling around the pendant at her neck.
It was cool to the touch.
Not magic.
Not warmth.
Just… presence.
She stood and paced to the window again, eyes scanning the courtyard.
Empty.
Still.
Her heart tightened.
Did something happen? Or is he simply done with me?
Maybe he's writing a tragic poem about betrayal. Or maybe he's just sulking in a corner with a goblet of wine and dramatic lighting.
Eventually, Elira gave in to the monotony and flopped onto her bed, hugging a pillow like it owed her an explanation.
Her eyes fluttered shut, sleep creeping in like a lazy cat.
Just as she began to drift, a soft knock echoed through the room.
She didn't respond.
She didn't even open her eyes.
If it's not freedom or chocolate, I'm not interested.
Let them think she was asleep.
Let them wonder.
Moments later, the door creaked open.
Servants entered quietly, assuming she was asleep. They tiptoed around like nervous cats, tidying and replacing linens with the solemn grace of people who definitely weren't paid enough to be involved in royal drama.
They moved about the room for nearly ten minutes, whispering in tones meant to be discreet—but weren't.
"She's lucky," one murmured. "Being treated this well as a prisoner. Is she really the Saintess?"
"That's what they've been saying," another replied.
"She looks so ordinary. I thought His Majesty planned to kill her, not keep her locked up like this."
"Shhh," a third hissed. "I heard last night, when Duke Rensic was here—His Majesty's planning to bring her to the palace. To kill her in front of the traitors. To show them that even prophecy can't defy him."
Elira's eyes opened slowly.
She didn't move.
She didn't turn.
She simply stared at the wall, her breath shallow, her thoughts spiraling.
To kill me? In front of the court? To prove a point?
Well, that's dramatic. Even for him.
She waited until the servants left, the door clicking shut behind them.
Then she sat up, her body tense, her mind racing.
So that's why he's been silent. He's not writing poetry—he's writing my death scene.
She stood and walked to the window, scanning the courtyard.
Still empty.
Still quiet.
But now, the silence felt heavier. Like the kind that comes before someone says, "We need to talk."
I need to know what's happening. I need to act before it's too late.
Elira sat at the edge of her bed, fingers tangled in the folds of her skirt, her thoughts a storm behind her eyes.
To kill me… in front of the court?
The servants' whispers echoed in her mind, each word a dagger.
Honestly, if I'm going to be executed, I'd at least like a better outfit. Maybe something with dramatic sleeves. Something that screams tragic heroine, not forgotten laundry pile.
What am I even thinking? she groaned inwardly. Executed? For being the Saintess?
She scoffed.
She wasn't divine. She wasn't chosen. She was just an ordinary girl who—thanks to some cosmic joke—had landed inside this ridiculous novel.
She stood abruptly, pacing the room like a caged cat with a flair for dramatics. Her gaze darted to the window, the door, the walls. Every corner felt sharper now. Every silence heavier.
I can't wait for him to decide when I die.
She moved to the window, pressing her palm against the cool glass. The courtyard was still empty, but she knew that wouldn't last. Time was slipping. And she wasn't about to be the tragic footnote in someone else's power play.
She turned to the vanity, yanked open the drawer, and began rummaging like a woman on a mission—or a very determined raccoon.
A few pins.
A small blade tucked beneath a folded cloth.
Nothing useful.
Still, she pocketed the blade. Because why not? If she was going to be dramatic, she might as well be armed.
Her eyes scanned the room again.
The fireplace.
The servants' door.
The wardrobe.
She knelt beside the wardrobe and pulled it open. Behind the hanging dresses, the back panel looked uneven. She tapped it.
Hollow.
Well, that's suspiciously promising.
She pushed gently. It creaked like it hadn't been touched since the last scandalous affair.
A narrow gap revealed a crawl space—dusty, dark, and probably full of spiders.
Her heart pounded.
She didn't know where it led.
She didn't care.
She grabbed a cloak from the hook, wrapped it around herself like a very determined burrito, and stared into the gap.
If I stay, I die.
If I run, I might live.
And if I get stuck halfway through, at least I'll die with a story.
She took a breath.
And slipped inside.
******
The servant's words hung in the air like a curse.
"She's gone."
Lucan didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Then—movement.
He turned slowly, like a storm gathering strength. His gaze locked on the steward, voice low and lethal.
"Gone?" he repeated. "From a sealed mansion?"
The steward swallowed hard. "Y-yes, Your Majesty. We discovered a hidden passage behind the wardrobe. She must've used it."
Lucan's jaw tightened. "How long?"
"We're not sure. The linens were untouched. She may have slipped out during the storm."
Lucan stepped forward, his cloak trailing like a shadow. "Seal every exit. Lock every gate. I want every servant, every guard, every guest accounted for. If anyone is missing, they are to be treated as accomplices."
The Count stood, alarmed. "You Highness—this is madness."
Lucan turned on him, eyes like sharpened steel. "Madness is letting a symbol of rebellion crawl through my walls unchecked."
He strode to the center of the room, voice rising with cold fury.
"Bring me the head steward. The architect. The guards who were posted outside her door. I want names. I want maps. And if anyone tells me they didn't know, I'll have them flogged for incompetence."
The steward bowed, trembling. "Yes, Your Majesty."
Lucan turned to the guards at the door. "Mobilize the hounds. I want the grounds swept. If she's hiding in the walls, smoke her out. If she's in the tunnels, collapse them."
The Count stepped forward again. "She's just a girl—"
Lucan's voice dropped to a deadly whisper. "She is the Saintess. And she ran. That makes her a threat."
He strode to the window, eyes scanning the grounds with surgical precision.
Beyond the garden wall, down the slope toward the rocky shore, something moved.
A figure.
Small.
Soaked.
Crawling.
Lucan's breath hitched.
There—half-hidden by sea spray and jagged stone—was Elira.
Her cloak clung to her like a soaked shroud, her hands gripping the rocks as another wave slammed into the shore.
"You little mouse," Lucan muttered, voice thick with fury.
He turned, already moving.
"Clear the cliff path," he ordered. "If she's dead, I want her body recovered before sunset. If she's alive—bring her to me. Bound."
*******
The sea was merciless.
Waves crashed against the rocks like fists, each one threatening to drag Elira into the cold abyss. Her cloak was soaked, her limbs numb, her breath shallow.
She crawled forward, fingers bleeding, knees bruised, heart pounding.
This was a mistake.
This was a terrible, stupid, reckless mistake.
Another wave slammed into her side, nearly knocking her loose. She cried out, her voice lost to the wind.
Her arms trembled. Her vision blurred.
I should've stayed in that cursed room. At least the pillows were soft.
She reached for the next rock—missed.
Her body lurched sideways, feet slipping, the tide pulling at her like it wanted her soul.
Then—hands.
Strong. Unyielding.
A grip around her wrist, anchoring her just as the sea tried to claim her.
She looked up, blinking through salt and spray.
Lucan.
Of course it was Lucan.
Because fate didn't just hate her—it was actively mocking her.
"I've got you," he growled, voice low and furious, muscles straining as he pulled her up.
She coughed, seawater spilling from her lips, her body shaking like a leaf in a storm.
Lucan dragged her onto the ledge, shielding her from the next wave with his own body. His cloak whipped around them, a barrier against the fury of the sea.
For a moment, the world narrowed.
Only the wind.
Only the waves.
Only the sound of her heart pounding like a war drum filled the silence.
Elira's fingers slipped into her cloak, closing around the hidden blade. Just in case.
Then she whispered, voice raw and trembling, "You were going to kill me."
Lucan's jaw tightened. "You heard them?"
She nodded, eyes burning. "I ran because I believed it. You've been spouting it ever since."
Lucan looked away, still gripping her arm.
"I was going to use you," he said, each word heavy. "To make a point. To silence the traitors. You told me to watch you—to observe if you were truly the Saintess."
Her breath caught.
"But I didn't plan to kill you," he added quietly. "Not until you ran."
She stared at him—soaked, bruised, furious.
"Then what now?" she asked.
Lucan met her gaze, silver eyes unreadable.
"That depends," he said. "Are you done running?"
Elira blinked, chest heaving.
Then she muttered, "Depends. Are you done being terrifying?"
Lucan didn't smile.
He leaned in, voice cold as steel. "No. I haven't even started."
Elira flinched, and the blade slipped from her fingers. It clattered to the ground between them. Both of them stared at it—silent, still—as if the steel had spoken first.
******
Lucan didn't speak.
He didn't offer comfort.
He didn't ask if she could walk.
The moment he saw the blade, rage ignited behind his eyes.
Without a word, he seized Elira's arm—tight, unforgiving—and hauled her to her feet.
She stumbled, legs trembling, seawater dripping from her cloak like blood from a wound.
"Let go," she rasped, twisting against his grip.
Lucan didn't even glance at her. "You lost the right to ask for anything the moment you ran."
He turned, dragging her behind him as he stormed up the cliff path. The wind howled, waves crashing below, but Lucan moved like a force of nature—cold, unstoppable, furious.
Elira tripped over a root, nearly collapsing.
Lucan didn't slow.
Didn't look back.
And Elira, breath ragged, realized something terrifying:
He wasn't dragging her to safety.
He was dragging her back into the storm.
Lucan yanked her forward, his grip bruising.
"You think you're clever?" he snarled. "Sneaking through tunnels like a rat? Crawling over rocks like a fugitive? And carrying a blade—to use against me?"
"I am a fugitive," Elira snapped, breathless. "From you."
Lucan stopped.
Just for a moment.
Then he turned, eyes blazing, face inches from hers.
"You are mine," he said, voice low and lethal. "By prophecy. By law. By the blood you carry. And you will not run from me again."
Elira's heart pounded.
She wanted to scream.
She wanted to fight.
But her body was weak, her limbs trembling, and Lucan was dragging her like a prisoner of war.
They reached the garden gate.
Guards stood waiting, eyes wide as they saw the soaked, battered Saintess in Lucan's grip.
"Open it," Lucan barked.
The gate creaked open.
He marched through, Elira stumbling behind him, cloak trailing like a funeral shroud.
Servants scattered as they entered the mansion, some gasping, others bowing low.
Lucan didn't acknowledge them.
He didn't slow.
He dragged her through the halls, past tapestries and polished floors, past the Count who stood frozen in disbelief.
"She tried to flee," Lucan said coldly. "She failed."
The Count opened his mouth, but Lucan raised a hand.
"Not now."
They reached his chamber.
Lucan shoved the door open, pulled her inside, and slammed it shut behind them.
Elira collapsed onto the floor, coughing, soaked and shaking.
Lucan stood over her, breathing hard.
"You will stay here," he said. "Until I decide what to do with you."
Elira looked up, eyes burning. "You mean until you decide how to kill me?"
Lucan's expression didn't change.
But his voice dropped to a whisper.
"No. Until I decide how to use you."
He turned and walked out, the door locking behind him with a heavy click.
Elira sat in silence.
Wet.
Cold.
Terrified.
And furious.