The world ended for Stephenie not with a bang, but with a screech—the metallic, desperate howl of her brakes fighting a losing battle with the asphalt.
"No, no, no, you idiot car!" she screamed, her knuckles white against the steering wheel.
A thousand meters. Then five hundred.
The rejection note from her agent lay crumpled on the passenger seat, mocking her. "We feel the climax of your Demon King's demise is too abrupt, Stephenie. Needs more motivation for the concubine."
Motivation! She had just lost the lead actor—the one meant to be her brooding, dangerous Demon King Hades—because he thought the role was "too dark." Her artistic vision was collapsing into commercial mush.
Her car slammed into a guardrail, or at least, it should have. Instead of the sickening crunch of metal and the smell of hot oil, a bizarre, sickening lurch hit her. The air in the car turned thick and electric, smelling of ozone and old leather. She felt a profound, painful squeeze, as if she were being pulled through a straw.
She gripped the spine of her manuscript, "The Forbidden Castle," so tightly the cheap paper cover ripped.
A final, blinding flash of gold light swallowed her.
Stephenie landed with a graceless, bone-jarring thump on a surface that was impossibly smooth and cold. The first thing she registered was the smell: woodsmoke, polished stone, and something acrid, like dried blood and iron.
She sat up, gasping, her lungs burning. Her ripped jeans and t-shirt were gone, replaced by layers of stifling, embroidered silk—the official robes of a Princess.
"Is this a drama?" she whispered, her voice cracking. "Am I in a shoot? I thought I was in an accident... Am I in heaven? Did I truly die?"
A maid, clad in stiff, unfamiliar livery, rushed forward, her eyes wide with terror. "Your Highness, please! You have soiled your gown before the ceremony!"
Stephenie's eyes, still trying to focus, swept over the scene. The room was massive, shadowy, and draped in foreboding scarlet and black banners. Heavy-set men in ornate, archaic armor stood like statues. It looked like a museum exhibit, but the fear radiating off the people was too real.
Then her gaze snagged on the man directly in front of her.
He was tall, impossibly broad, and clad in polished obsidian plate armor that seemed to absorb the light. His dark hair was pulled back, emphasizing a sharp, powerful jawline. His eyes were the color of polished steel, completely devoid of warmth.
Hades.
Her own creation. The ruthless, heartless killer she had typed into existence. She had spent a year describing the menace in his eyes, but she had failed. No words on a page could capture the sheer, lethal presence of the Demon King.
Nioxin's father, the King of Hauxin, rushed to her side, his face pale with panic. "Nioxin! Cease this madness! The Demon King awaits the agreement!"
Hades remained perfectly still, observing her with an unnerving curiosity. He took in her trembling, her modern-world gibberish, and the raw, unpolished terror in her eyes. It was a reaction he rarely saw, a genuine fear untainted by political posturing.
"I do not know what 'drama' or 'heaven' you speak of, little Princess," Hades rumbled, his voice low and dangerous, "but I see honesty in your fear, which is a rarity in your court. Your sister's cold arrogance offends me. I choose you to be my bride. Rise, Nioxin."
The King and Queen immediately refused, throwing caution aside for their cherished youngest. "No! She is too young! We offered the contract with Princess Karina! We ask to break off this treaty!"
Hades's expression did not change, but his right hand moved with impossible speed. A dagger, wickedly curved and gleaming with dark enchantments, appeared in his grip. The nearest minister, a stout man who had been whispering a prayer, choked on a gasp as the blade was plunged into his chest. He collapsed to the stone floor, his blood spreading into a dark pool.
The chamber erupted in silence.
Hades's gaze swept over the horrified King and Queen, then settled back on Nioxin/Stephenie. The dagger, now stained, pointed directly at her chest.
"I trust you now understand the cost of a broken treaty," Hades stated, his voice a flat statement of fact, not a question. "Sign."
Stephenie saw the flashing image of her future: the taste of a decent latte, the feel of new fabric, the joy of a good paycheck. She was a screenwriter; she had not yet lived. She wasn't ready to die here, in a plot point of her own design.
She walked forward, her silk skirts swishing on the cold stone. She took the quill, the silence of the chamber broken only by her ragged breathing.
"I... I accept. I shall be your bride, Lord Hades," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "For the sake of the kingdom's peace."
She signed her name—Nioxin—in bold, shaky script. The ink felt chillingly final.
Hades took the contract, rolled it, and looked down at his new bride. "Good," he said, the shadow of a cruel smile returning. "The wedding procession leaves for my castle in the hour. Prepare yourself, Princess Nioxin. Your marriage begins now."