My Love From Another World

The square loomed small and ominous, a grim tapestry woven from dirt and blood, surrounded by a low stone wall, its once-strong edges softened by countless executions. A single black execution block, polished smooth by fates more tragic than mine, stood at the center, silent and unyielding. There were no banners fluttering in the wind; no proud towers casting shadows over the scene. Just a horde of wolves pressed together, an eager crowd awaiting the butcher's knife.

I knelt in the dirt, my wrists shackled, a heavy stone of hatred lodged in my chest. 

I despised the rope collar that bit into my throat. I loathed the guards who had dragged me through the gates like a sack of grain, devoid of any concern. Most of all, I burned with fury at the man seated above the gathered throng—a mere spectator to my doom, boot propped casually on his knee, watching my impending execution as though he were waiting for the rain to cease.

Crown Prince Lucian.

Five grueling years had passed, during which I learned the language of his people, their treaties, their history. Yet, all that knowledge had failed to reveal the contempt that could sit so comfortably on a man’s face, as if it was an ornate crown that he could wear without thought.

"Human female," Commander Cassian announced, his voice devoid of any interest in my name. "Caught crossing the Shadow Border armed. Sentence: death."

Not a single person had asked what I carried or why I'd ventured here. To them, I was no scholar, but vermin that had meandered into forbidden territory, vermin deserving of no trial.

Lucian descended into the square with a languid grace, and up close, he was even more imposing, a wall of scarred muscle and hardened resolve, as if violence had never been a weight on his shoulders.

"Look at it shaking," he remarked to Cassian, chin tilted toward me as one might gesture at a stray dog frothing at the mouth. 

"I’m not shaking," I retorted defiantly.

He fixed me with a stare, the surprise evident that the beaten dog had dared to bark. "It talks."

"It has a name. Elena," I replied, my voice steady.

"Names are for things that matter." He crouched low, his hand closing around my jaw with an iron grip that was both deliberate and punishing, as if he craved my pain while he felt nothing at all.

The moment his skin brushed against mine, the world splintered into chaos. 

Not warmth. Not comfort. No, a savage current surged through my arm, igniting a storm behind my eyes. For an unbearable heartbeat, I was torn from my own thoughts, submerged in a swell of his fury and grief, a crown he wore like a shackle he could not cast away. I gasped, wrenching my head back so violently that the chains bit into my wrists.

Lucian didn’t flinch, his gaze fixed on his own hand as if it had betrayed him before the crowd. 

"What was that?" he breathed, not to me but to the void, his golden eyes wide and empty, grasping for an explanation he couldn't articulate.

I remained silent, unable to voice the unknown that had surged between us. It had neither shape nor word just an electric certainty that coursed through my veins, binding me to a man who regarded me as if I were dirt beneath his boot.

A ripple passed through the crowd, and from the platform, Prince Dorian stood still, his head cocked like a hound sensing an unfamiliar scent on the wind.

"Brother?" he called, amused yet cautious. "You've gone the color of curdled milk. What ails you?"

"Nothing," Lucian snapped, retreating to his stoic demeanor as if he could shake off whatever unsettling feeling had gripped him. His jaw clenched tightly, fury etched into his features.

Lady Seraphina leaned over the railing, tension in her voice. "Lucian, what is it? What did she do to you?"

"She did nothing," Lucian growled. "Step back."

His focus returned to me, and whatever had cracked open in him moments ago slammed shut, replaced by a chilling emptiness. With deliberate motions, he drew a long blade from his back, stepping behind the block and positioning it above my neck.

"Kill her!" Seraphina shrieked.

"Kill it!" Dorian’s voice rose, laced with delight and provocation. "Or are you suddenly afraid of a human, brother?"

The crowd’s chant ignited like dry grass catching fire. Kill her, kill her, kill her—a cacophony of voices twisting together into a singular, hungry roar. Lucian's expression hardened, a mask of unreadable stone as he raised the blade overhead, both hands gripping the hilt, drawing power from his shoulders.

I shut my eyes, refusing to witness the final blow. I heard the rush of his breath, slicing through the tension-laden air, sharper than the sword poised above me. Suddenly, the sound of the blade slicing through the space around us broke through; I braced for the inevitable—

Then, the distant gate of the square burst open. A guard staggered forth, blood-soaked chainmail clinging to him, and fell to the ground before Lucian.

"Your Highness, stop!" he cried out, panic lacing his voice. "The King. He’s dead. Murdered in his chambers!"

The blade froze mid-air.

The guard lifted something high into the flickering torchlight, his trembling hand making the object shudder, a dagger, stained dark with blood. 

"It's human-made, Your Highness. We found it buried in his heart."

In an instant, every wolfish gaze in the square turned to me.

Lucian lowered the blade slowly, his knuckles whitening against the hilt, and looked down at me with something far more dangerous than mere confusion now.

"I didn't do this," I said, my voice quaking for the first time that morning. "I’ve been chained since dawn. Ask your own guards."

"She's lying," Seraphina hissed.

"Maybe," Lucian replied softly, but uncertainty flickered in his golden eyes.

He crouched low, yanking me up by the chain with a force that jolted my shoulder. "Either way, you’re not dying today, human. You’ll answer my questions."

Instinct took over, and I twisted against his grip, a primal part of me rebelling against the thought of being dragged around by him. In a flash, his hand struck my face, the slap fueled by all the fury he could muster, sharp and sudden, like a bone snapping. My vision blurred at the edges as a sharp sting blossomed across my cheek, spreading like ink swirling in water.

"Don’t fight me," he warned, his voice low and unwavering. "Or the next command I give will strip away the mercy I just showed you."

"To the dungeon," he instructed the guards, already turning his back on me. "I want her contained, not comfortable."

They dragged me away through the gate, my cheek still aflame, my pulse racing with an unsettling energy. Behind me, I caught the sound of Dorian’s low, contemplative laugh, a  man quietly storing away a question he intended to answer on his own terms.