LOGINLyria lay tangled in Edrion’s arms, her back pressed against his chest as he held her with a closeness that no longer felt accidental, but deeply chosen. His breathing had evened out, yet his grip remained firm—as if, even in the quiet of dawn, he refused to let her go. For a moment, neither of them spoke. There was no need for words. Lyria closed her eyes, letting the stillness wash over her: the weight of his arm draped around her waist, the familiar heat of his fingers resting on her skin like a silent claim over territory he now considered his own. Then, slowly, she shifted. She slipped out of his embrace with deliberate care, unwilling to shatter the peace of the moment, yet knowing she couldn't linger in bed forever. Edrion didn't stop her. He simply watched. She sat up, gently brushing back the sheets, and the cool morning draft swept over her bare skin as she stepped onto the floor. She didn't rush. Every movement was calm and measured, keenly aware of his eyes tracing
Morning light filtered softly through the tall windows, gliding over the rumpled sheets and the vast expanse of the royal bedchambers, illuminating the quiet aftermath of the night. Edrion was already awake. He lay reclining beside her, watching her. Lyria slept at his side, her breathing steady and peaceful. Her hair spilled across the pillow in soft, dark waves, striking a sharp contrast against the pale light of dawn. Her face, devoid of tension, wore a serenity he had never witnessed before—as if, for a few precious hours, she had forgotten the heavy burden of the world surrounding them both. The king slowly lifted his hand, the gesture arising with a calm uncharacteristic of him, as though for a fleeting second the world had ceased demanding his ruthlessness. His fingers approached her face with an unexpected gentleness, brushing her skin with almost reverent care—as if terrified of shattering something fragile, as if discovering in that simple contact a treasure he couldn't
Elinor had lost all track of time inside that dark, damp place, where the air seemed trapped between the stone walls and every breath dragged in a bitter trace of grime. The coarse rope binding her wrists burned her skin with every slight movement, but the physical pain paled in comparison to the agonizing uncertainty consuming her. She didn't know how long she had been there or what was unfolding in the outside world, and that ignorance was what eroded her sanity most. The voices reached her before the men did, filtering through the shadows with uncomfortable clarity. One of them stopped directly in front of her and studied her intently, tilting his head slightly as if assessing her value. He was a short, gaunt man with a disproportionate face dominated by a pointed nose and prominent teeth that protruded even when he wasn't speaking. His bulging eyes, heavy with disdain, raked over every detail of her appearance as if already calculating how much her life could yield. “She’s not
Edrion turned slowly, and the second his eyes met hers, the entire atmosphere shifted. His gaze drifted downward unhurriedly, taking her in with an undisguised intensity before snapping back to her face with a force that left her feeling completely exposed. Yet this time, Lyria did not shrink back, nor did she let the urge to flee take hold. There was no tremor in her frame, no hesitation in her eyes—only a newfound resolve, unfamiliar even to herself, with which she matched the king’s fierce gaze. Edrion stepped forward, closing the distance between them with slow, measured strides, as if every movement carried a choice he no longer intended to second-guess. Each step was deliberate and commanding, charged with an imposing presence, but also with something more—something that went beyond sheer control... into absolute need. Standing before her, he raised his hand and pressed it against her chest, as though needing to prove to himself that she was there, that she was real. His finge
The day gave her no respite. Since dawn, the heavy wooden doors had swung open and shut in an endless loop, admitting a constant procession of servants bearing chests, silks, perfumes, and jewels—each gift more ostentatious than the last. They were all sent by the Avelyne family as a silent, yet blatantly public, display of absolute dominance. Lyria remained seated as the wealth piled up around her, as if they were attempting to bury her in gold until whatever she truly was simply ceased to exist. She offered a polite smile when required, nodded at all the right cues, and expressed gratitude with the precise delicacy expected of a lady. In truth, however, she heard nothing they said. The whispers seeped through anyway—they always found a way. They slithered down the corridors, hid behind heavy drapes, and disguised themselves as respectful glances while muttering what everyone was already thinking: that the marriage remained unconsummated, that the king had not truly chosen her, an
The king leaned down and kissed her, but the moment contact broke, his expression held no trace of warmth or closeness. The gesture had been nothing more than a decision made in cold blood. Before Valeria could react or process what had just transpired, Edrion’s hand moved with lethal speed, locking around her throat and gripping her with a firmness that completely disarmed her. The shift was so violent that the air seemed to vanish from her lungs. Valeria stared up at him—first confused, then stunned, and finally terrified. Barely a second ago, she had been convinced she had won, that the kiss was the ultimate seal of her victory, that she had finally secured everything she had ever desired. But Edrion’s eyes reflected none of that. His gaze was cold, hollow, and utterly unyielding, hardened by a severity she had never seen in him before—as if, in that exact instant, nothing resembling warmth or leniency remained inside him. His fingers tightened just a fraction more, enough to
At dawn, before the castle had fully awakened, Lyria was taken from the room in silence and brought to the Avelaine family’s country estate—a discreet residence surrounded by high gardens and far from prying eyes.There, within walls that guarded old secrets, the lessons began.Hidden from the rest
The sound of the door opening shattered the silence of the room.Lyria lifted her head at once.She was still seated on the bed, her wrists bound in front of her, her body stiff from tension and a sleepless night. Morning light streamed more strongly through the high window now, illuminating the ro
The knight did not speak immediately.He simply stood there, watching her, as if the world itself had made a mistake by placing her in that room. The flickering lamplight illuminated the young woman’s face with cruel clarity, revealing features he knew far too well.That face.That cursed face.“St
Long before the Demon King rejected yet another betrothed in the palace courtyard, Elinor Avelaine’s fate had already been decided—without her ever being consulted.The news came on a gray afternoon, when the sky seemed to hang heavy over the Avelaine estate. Elinor was embroidering by the window,







