Elira blinked.
Twice.
Then a third time, just to be sure.
She looked around slowly, her body still soaked, her limbs aching, her heart caught somewhere between panic and disbelief.
This wasn't her room.
It was his.
The fireplace loomed larger, the furniture darker, the scent of leather and ink lingering in the air like a warning. Books lined the shelves—titles she couldn't read, probably written in the language of tyrants. A sword rested against the far wall, polished and very stabby-looking.
She sat up with a groan, her wet cloak clinging to the floor like a defeated jellyfish.
What just happened? she thought, rubbing her temples. Did I hit my head on a rock? Did he drag me here by accident? Did I hallucinate the part where he threatened to bind me and parade me through the halls like a cautionary tale?
She stood, wobbling slightly, and scanned the room again.
Definitely his.
Definitely not hers.
And definitely not the kind of place you'd want to wake up in after escaping a mansion and nearly drowning.
It's like he's not himself, she thought, frowning. Or maybe this is exactly who he is. Moody. Possessive. Likes dramatic lighting and kidnapping.
She moved toward the fireplace, arms wrapped around herself for warmth. The fire crackled softly, casting flickers of gold across the stone floor.
Then the door creaked open.
Lucan stepped inside—dry, composed, and infuriatingly regal. In his hands were dry clothes, a towel, a basin of warm water, and a small tin of medicine.
Elira stared at him. "Why am I in your room?"
Lucan didn't blink. He didn't answer. He simply placed the items on the table with quiet precision.
She blinked again. "Is this a hostage upgrade? Because I have to say, the amenities are confusing."
Lucan stepped closer, his gaze unreadable. "You ran. You defied me. You nearly died. So now, you'll stay here. Where I can see you. Where no passage, no servant, no whisper can reach you."
Elira backed up instinctively, sitting on the edge of the bed as he approached.
He knelt before her.
Her brows furrowed. "W-wait—"
He reached for her ankle.
"Stop moving," he said, voice low and firm.
She froze as he gently lifted her leg, inspecting the bruises along her shin. His touch was clinical, but the intimacy of the moment made her pulse race.
Lucan dipped the cloth into the basin, wrung it out, and began cleaning the dried blood from her skin. Then he applied the ointment—cool, soothing, and strangely tender.
Elira watched him in silence, unsure whether to flinch or lean in.
"You don't have to do this," she said quietly.
"I do," he replied, not looking up.
"But you're a tyrant king," she said, the words sharper than she intended. "I can do it myself."
She hated the way her voice trembled—not from fear, but from the sudden, unwelcome feelings that surfaced every time he did something that didn't fit the monster she'd built in her mind.
Lucan looked up, and their eyes met.
"I'm doing this not because I want to," he said, voice like ice. "But because you're the Saintess I intend to use. You made your vow in Virelith. Now it's time to obey."
His gaze returned to her ankle. "This means nothing."
She swallowed hard.
The fire crackled.
The silence stretched.
Then Lucan stood, handed her the dry clothes, and turned toward the door.
"Change. Eat. Rest. Tomorrow, you're coming with me to the capital."
He paused, just before leaving.
"And Elira," he added, voice like steel wrapped in velvet, "don't try to run again. I won't be gentle next time."
The door closed behind him.
Elira sat there, staring at the clothes in her lap, wondering if survival was just another word for surrender.
*******
Lucan stood in the center of the grand hall like a blade unsheathed.
The fire behind him roared, casting jagged shadows across the marble floor. His cloak was still damp from the sea, but he wore it like armor—like a warning. His expression was carved from stone: cold, merciless, and unreadable.
"Gather them," he said, voice low and lethal. "Every servant assigned to the Saintess. Every hand that touched her food, lit her fire, folded her sheets. I want them here. Now."
The steward hesitated.
Lucan turned his head slowly, like a predator catching scent. "If I have to repeat myself, I'll start with you."
The steward bowed so fast he nearly collapsed, then fled the hall.
Lucan didn't move.
Didn't blink.
He waited.
And when the servants were finally assembled—dozens of them, lined up in trembling silence—he stepped forward.
Boots echoing.
Eyes burning.
"You served her," he said, voice calm. Too calm. "You entered her room. You saw her moods. Her movements. Her silence."
No one dared speak.
Lucan's gaze swept the line.
Then it locked onto three women.
Three maids.
Their faces pale. Their hands shaking.
"You," he said, stepping toward them. "You entered her chamber the morning she escaped."
The eldest maid dropped to her knees. "Your Majesty, we didn't know—"
Lucan's voice sliced through the air. "You spoke of my plans. You gossiped. You planted fear in her mind."
The youngest whimpered. "We thought she was asleep…"
Lucan's eyes narrowed. "She wasn't. She heard every word. And because of your tongues, she ran."
He turned slowly, walking toward the wall where his sword rested—long, polished, and unforgiving.
The hall fell silent.
Even the fire seemed to dim.
Lucan reached for the hilt, fingers curling around it with deliberate calm.
Gasps rippled through the servants.
The steward stepped forward, voice trembling. "Your Majesty…"
Lucan drew the blade.
The sound rang through the hall like a death knell.
He turned, sword gleaming in the firelight, and walked back to the three maids.
"You spread poison," he said. "Now you'll bleed for it."
The eldest maid sobbed. "Mercy, please—"
Lucan raised the sword.
The blade hovered.
The servants watched, frozen in horror.
Lucan's voice dropped to a whisper. "Let this be a lesson. I do not tolerate betrayal. I do not tolerate weakness. And I do not forgive."
Then, with terrifying precision, he swung.
The blade sliced through the air.
And silence fell.
His sword dripped.
Thick, crimson trails slid down the gleaming steel, pooling at the tip before falling onto the marble floor with soft, wet splashes.
The three maids lay motionless.
The hall was silent.
Not a breath. Not a whisper. Not even the fire dared crackle.
Lucan stood over the bodies, his chest rising slowly, the fury in his veins finally quieted. The weight of his wrath had been cast, and it was satisfying—brutal, but necessary.
He turned without ceremony, cloak sweeping behind him like a shadow.
The steward stood frozen, pale as ash.
Lucan extended the bloodied blade toward him, grip firm, gaze unflinching.
"Clean it," he said, voice low and final. "And return it to me."
The steward took the sword with trembling hands, bowing so deeply his knees nearly buckled.
Lucan didn't wait for a response.
He walked away, boots echoing through the hall, leaving behind the scent of iron and fear.
A lesson had been carved into the stone that day.
And the mansion would not forget it.
Lucan walked through the hallway like a shadow made flesh.
The torches lining the walls flickered as he passed, casting gold and crimson across his face—but it was the blood on his hands that drew every eye. Fresh. Dark. Unapologetic.
Servants scattered at the sight of him.
No one dared speak.
No one dared breathe.
His boots echoed against the stone floor, each step deliberate, each stride a warning. The sword was gone—handed off to the steward—but the violence lingered in his posture, in the silence that followed him like a second cloak.
He reached his chamber.
The door creaked open.
He stepped inside.
The fire was still burning, low and steady. The scent of sea salt and iron hung in the air. And there—curled on the edge of the bed, dress in newly dry clothes—was Elira.
She looked up.
Her eyes met his.
And froze.
Lucan didn't speak.
He didn't flinch.
He closed the door behind him with a quiet click, then turned to face her fully.
The blood on his hands glistened in the firelight.
Elira's breath caught.
"What… what did you do?" she whispered.
Lucan stepped forward, slow and silent.
"You're still not sleeping," he said, ignoring her question.
Elira's voice rose. "Who did you kill?"
Lucan's tone remained calm. "It's not your place to know."
Elira stood, trembling. "They were just people."
Lucan's gaze didn't waver. "And you are not just a girl."
He stepped closer, until the firelight danced between them.
"Acting concerned for the lives of others makes you look more like the Saintess," he said.
Elira's voice shook. "No, I'm not. Anyone can care. It's called empathy."
Lucan's lips curled—just slightly. "Empathy? In this kingdom, empathy has no place. Especially when I rule it."
He turned away, walking toward the basin in the corner.
The water rippled as he dipped his hands in, blood swirling like ink from a cursed quill. His movements were slow, deliberate—ritualistic, as if cleansing himself of more than just blood.
"You'll sleep now," he said, voice low and final. "Tomorrow, we return to the capital. To my palace."
Elira blinked. "Palace?" She scoffed. "I'm not the Saintess you keep hallucinating about. How do I convince you—fake a nosebleed? Start juggling?"
Lucan didn't look at her. He wrung the cloth slowly, watching the crimson drip into the basin like falling judgments.
"You can't convince me," he said. "Nothing can be changed."
Elira rolled her eyes. "Why are you so obsessed with finding the Saintess and chasing prophecy when you're already king?"
Lucan turned, his gaze sharp and unyielding.
"Because the Saintess is the prophecy," he said. "She's the one foretold to kill me. And now, she's in my grasp."
Elira fell silent.
She stared at him.
Elira stared at him, her voice rising with disbelief.
"Look at me. Do I look like someone who could kill you someday? I have no powers! I'm weak. I'm ordinary. I trip over flat surfaces!"
Lucan didn't respond immediately. He dried his hands slowly, the cloth now stained with fading red. Then, instead of leaving, he walked to the chair near the fireplace and sat down—his posture regal, his silence heavier than armor.
"You're not ordinary," he said, watching the flames.
"Oh, please," Elira muttered. "I once got lost in my own temple. Twice."
Lucan's brow lifted, just slightly.
"And I cried during a puppet show," she added. "The puppets weren't even sad. They were just… aggressively cheerful."
Lucan didn't move. He simply watched the fire, as if it might answer for him.
"You're deflecting," he said.
"I'm surviving," she shot back. "Big difference."
He turned his gaze toward her, slow and deliberate. The firelight danced across his face, casting shadows that made him look carved from stone.
"You think weakness makes you safe," he said. "But prophecy doesn't care how clumsy you are."
Elira scoffed. "Well, prophecy clearly needs better taste. I'm not exactly assassin material. I faint at the sight of blood. I mean, look at you—covered in it—and I'm still trying not to pass out."
Lucan's lips twitched. Not quite a smile. But close.
"You're not fainting," he said.
"Because I'm too angry to faint," she replied. "And also, I think your basin smells like mint. Is that mint?"
Lucan blinked. "It's for wounds."
"Well, it's oddly soothing. Which is confusing, considering you just murdered someone."
He leaned back in the chair, one arm resting on the armrest, the other draped across his lap.
"You'll sleep now," he said, voice low and final.
******
The fire had burned low, casting soft amber light across the chamber. Shadows danced along the stone walls, flickering like ghosts with nowhere to go.
Lucan remained in his chair, unmoving.
He hadn't slept.
Couldn't.
His gaze lingered on the flames, but his thoughts drifted elsewhere—toward the palace, toward the prophecy, toward the girl lying in his bed.
Elira.
She had fallen asleep hours ago, curled beneath the thick blankets, her breathing shallow but steady.
Until now.
She stirred.
Her brow furrowed.
Her fingers twitched.
Lucan turned his head.
Elira whimpered softly, her body tense, her breath catching in her throat. Then he saw it—tears, glistening and slow, slipping from the corners of her closed eyes.
She mumbled something.
Barely audible.
Lucan stood.
He stepped closer, slow and silent, until he was beside the bed.
She shifted again, her voice trembling in sleep.
"Mama…"
Lucan froze.
The word hung in the air like a broken prayer.
He looked down at her—this girl wrapped in prophecy and defiance, now reduced to a child lost in a nightmare.
Her lips trembled.
Her hand reached out, grasping at nothing.
Lucan hesitated.
Then, without a word, he sat on the edge of the bed, just near her feet. Not touching. Not speaking.
Just watching.
The fire crackled.
Elira's breathing slowed.
The tears stopped.
And Lucan, for the first time in years, felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest.
Not pity.
Not guilt.
But the quiet ache of remembering what it meant to be human.