Tiana stood on the balcony, the wind tugging gently at her nightgown, the moon casting silver light across the manor's quiet gardens. Sleep had long abandoned her. She waited—aching—for word from Duke Rensic. For confirmation. For hope.
Please, she thought. Let it be a lie. Let him be alive. Let him only be wounded.
Her eyes drifted upward to the glowing moon, and memories stirred—soft, distant, but sharp as glass.
---
"Who is that boy, Father?" eight-year-old Tiana asked, pointing toward the tree line.
A small figure stood there, half-hidden behind the trunk, watching her with wide, cautious eyes.
She had seen him earlier—surrounded by sneering princes and mocking princesses. Even the servants had turned their backs on him.
Marquis Emberlain followed her gaze.
There, in the shadows, stood a tiny boy. His clothes were plain, his posture guarded. No attendants. No protection.
But Emberlain knew him.
He was Cathelia's son—a woman from the brothel district. And yet, he bore the blood of the king.
The marquis stepped forward and gently pushed his daughter's hand down.
"Do not look at him, Tiana," he said firmly.
She blinked up at him. "Why?"
"He is also a son of the king," Emberlain said, voice low. "But you must not approach him. You are meant to become a queen someday. That boy… he is not someone who could ever be king."
---
Now, years later, Tiana gripped the balcony rail, knuckles white.
But he did become king, she thought. And they tried to erase him.
The wind shifted.
A knock echoed from the door.
She turned sharply. Crosita entered, holding a sealed letter.
"It just arrived, my lady," the nanny said softly.
Tiana snatched it, broke the seal, and read.
Her breath caught.
Lucan was alive.
And he was returning—not as a wounded monarch, but as a storm.
Tiana clutched the letter to her chest, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.
"She took down the Saintess… not him," she whispered through trembling breath, her voice caught between sorrow and joy.
The prophecy had failed.
But he had endured.
"You were always meant to be king," she murmured, eyes lifted to the moon.
And this time, she would stand beside him—not as a distant admirer, but as a shield against the tide.
*******
The convoy made camp beneath a canopy of skeletal trees, their branches clawing at the sky like forgotten prayers. Firelight flickered across tents and armor, casting long shadows that danced between loyalty and suspicion.
Elira stepped out of her carriage, the chill biting through her cloak. She moved slowly, deliberately—like someone who belonged among soldiers, not just as a symbol.
Rensic's men watched her.
Not with awe.
With curiosity.
She approached one—young, sharp-eyed, his helm tucked under his arm.
"You're not one of Lucan's," she said.
The soldier straightened, surprised by how casually she referred to the king. "No, my lady. We were sent by Duke Rensic."
Duke Rensic? she echoed inwardly, her brows drawing together in quiet curiosity.
She smiled, just enough to be disarming. "May I ask—who is Duke Rensic?"
The soldier hesitated before answering. "Duke Rensic Albrecht is one of the bravest noblemen in the kingdom. He's the Warden of the North and a close ally of His Highness the King."
Elira nodded slowly. "Close ally…" she echoed. "Then, might I meet him soon at the palace?"
The young soldier furrowed his brows. "Pardon… my lady?"
Before Elira could repeat her question, the air shifted.
Heavy.
Sharp.
Lucan.
The soldier bowed quickly and retreated.
"You," Lucan said, voice low and edged.
Elira turned slowly. He was close—too close. She stepped back once, feigning a stretch, pretending it was casual.
"Just stretching my legs. Making conversation."
"With soldiers who don't answer to me," he said. "You're testing boundaries."
She stopped, the firelight painting gold across her cheekbones. "I'm just being friendly. I'm so bored I could die."
Lucan's jaw tightened. "You think you can twist them? Turn them?"
"What are you talking about?" she said, feigning innocence. "Are you really that afraid of what I might become? That I might actually be the Saintess?"
Lucan stepped into her space, the stars above them cold and watching.
"I'm not afraid of you," he said. "I'm afraid of what I'll do if you force my hand."
Elira didn't flinch. "Then maybe you should stop pretending you hold the leash."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Lucan leaned in, voice a whisper against her ear.
"You're playing a dangerous game. I'm watching you."
She met his gaze, steady and unyielding.
"So are you. You act like you're being kind, but really—you're just trying to tame me."
Lucan leaned closer, closing the final gap between them.
Elira could feel his breath against her skin—warm, deliberate, far too intimate.
"Do you think you can make them your allies?" he whispered.
It wasn't the words that made her shiver.
It was the closeness.
The way his voice curled around her like smoke.
His gaze drifted across her face—eyes, nose, lips—slow and calculating, as if memorizing her expression for weakness.
"Those men," he said, voice low and edged, "are my loyal servants. No one betrays me without my knowledge."
Elira held his stare, refusing to flinch—though fear clawed at her ribs.
"Then maybe you should ask yourself," she said softly, "why loyalty needs so many eyes."
Lucan's jaw tightened.
The fire crackled behind them, casting gold across his cheekbones and shadow across hers.
"You think you're clever," he said.
"I think I'm cornered," she replied. "And cornered things tend to bite. You don't believe me when I say I'm not the Saintess. You keep talking about killing me someday. So I'm doing what I can to survive you."
Lucan stepped back, just enough to break the tension—but not enough to feel safe.
He turned toward the camp, his cloak catching the wind.
"Sleep while you can," he said. "If you want to survive… obey me."
Elira watched him walk away, his silhouette swallowed by firelight and frost.
She touched her lips, still tingling from the proximity.
Then whispered to herself, "Obey him? Is that really safe?"
*********
The night was quiet.
Too quiet.
Lucan stood at the edge of the camp, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The fire behind him had dimmed to embers, casting long shadows across the tents. Elira lay nearby, her eyes half-closed, pretending to sleep but listening—always listening.
Then came the whistle.
A blade sliced through the air, aimed for Lucan's throat.
He ducked, rolled, and drew his sword in one fluid motion.
The camp exploded.
Figures in black surged from the treeline—assassins, fast and silent, blades gleaming like fangs. They weren't here for Elira.
They were here for him.
Rensic's men scrambled to respond, but the attack was precise. The assassins had studied their movements, struck between rotations. Two guards fell before they could raise a cry.
Lucan met the charge head-on.
Steel clashed. Sparks flew. His blade moved like fury incarnate—cutting, parrying, striking. One assassin fell. Then another.
A third assassin lunged from the shadows, twin daggers flashing.
Lucan twisted, caught one blade with his gauntlet, and drove his sword through the attacker's ribs. The man crumpled without a sound.
Another came from behind.
Lucan spun, ducked, and slammed the hilt of his sword into the assassin's jaw, sending him sprawling into the dirt.
The camp was chaos.
Rensic's men rallied, but the assassins were coordinated—striking in pairs, vanishing between tents, using smoke bombs to blind and confuse. One soldier screamed, dragged into the dark by a figure that moved like mist.
Elira sat up, heart pounding, eyes wide.
She saw Lucan surrounded—five cloaked figures circling him like wolves. She didn't know what to do. There were too many. Double the number of the duke's men.
Lucan didn't retreat.
He roared.
And charged.
His blade sang through the air, catching one across the chest. Another tried to flank him—Lucan kicked him square in the gut, sending him crashing into a tent pole.
Blood sprayed.
Steel rang.
Lucan fought like a man possessed.
But even he couldn't be everywhere.
Elira made a decision.
She had to escape. Save herself. This might be her only chance to flee the leash Lucan kept around her throat.
She turned, ready to run—when one assassin broke from the pack, heading straight for her.
She scrambled to her feet, grabbing a fallen dagger. Her hands trembled, but her stance held.
"Don't come any closer," she warned, voice shaking.
The assassin didn't slow.
She glanced at Lucan—still fighting, still surrounded. She wanted to scream for help, but her voice caught in her throat.
The assassin lunged.
Elira dodged, barely avoiding the slash aimed at her ribs. She stumbled back, grabbed a rock, and hurled it at his face. He deflected it with his forearm and kept coming.
She snatched a broken branch from the ground and swung it wildly. He ducked, twisted, and slashed again—this time grazing her shoulder.
She cried out, backing away, heart pounding like a war drum.
She grabbed a handful of dust and flung it into his eyes. He flinched, just for a second.
She ran.
Her feet pounded against the earth, lungs burning, vision blurred. She zigzagged between tents, ducking low, trying to stay out of sight.
But the assassin was fast.
She heard his footsteps behind her—closer, closer.
She turned sharply, and he was there.
He swung.
She dropped to the ground, the blade slicing through the air above her head.
She rolled, kicked out, caught his shin. He stumbled.
She scrambled to her feet again, dagger still in hand, and slashed blindly. The blade nicked his arm.
He hissed.
Then came the final strike.
A dagger, thrown from his hand, whistled through the air and struck her back.
She gasped, staggered, and collapsed to the ground.
From where she lay, the world spinning, she saw Lucan.
He was still fighting—bloodied, relentless, unstoppable.
She reached out, fingers trembling.
"Help… me…" she whispered.
Then the darkness took her.
Lucan turned.
And saw her fall.
The dagger buried in Elira's back gleamed in the firelight. Her body crumpled to the ground, blood soaking the earth, her hand reaching out—toward him.
"Help… me…" she whispered.
Something inside him snapped.
The world narrowed.
No more strategy.
No more restraint.
Only rage.
Lucan roared—a sound that tore through the camp like thunder. He charged, his sword already rising, eyes locked on the assassin who struck her.
The man barely had time to turn.
Lucan's blade cleaved through him, shoulder to hip, splitting armor and bone.
Another assassin lunged.
Lucan didn't dodge.
He caught the blade with his gauntlet, twisted the attacker's wrist until it snapped, then drove his sword through the man's throat.
Blood sprayed.
Screams echoed.
Rensic's men froze, watching the king become something else—something primal.
Lucan moved like a tempest, cutting down anyone in black. One tried to flee—Lucan hurled a dagger into his spine. Another raised a bow—Lucan was already there, slamming him into a tree and crushing his windpipe.
The last assassin dropped his weapon, trembling.
Lucan didn't hesitate.
He struck.
And silence fell.
The camp was littered with bodies.
Smoke curled into the night air.
Lucan dropped to his knees beside Elira, his cloak pooling around them like a shroud. He pressed his hand to her wound, blood pouring between his fingers.
"Hey, stay with me," he said, voice low and raw.
Her eyes fluttered.
"You're… not gentle," she whispered.
Lucan's jaw clenched. "I don't need to be gentle. I need you alive."
He lifted her into his arms, her blood staining his chest, and turned to the stunned soldiers.
"Get the healer," he barked. "Now!"
No one hesitated.
And as Lucan carried Elira through the wreckage, the firelight casting gold across his face, the camp knew one thing for certain:
The king had something to protect.
And gods help anyone who tried to take it from him.