The morning sun filtered through the stained glass of the celestial dining hall, painting golden beams across the pristine floor. Yet beneath the marble gleam and heavenly fragrance of roses, Lysander sat with a heart knotted in dread.
He barely touched the bowl of honeyed fruits in front of him. The silver spoon trembled in his grasp.
It had begun.
The wedding preparations.
A servant entered and bowed low. "Your Majesties, Crown Prince Xavier of the Lycan Empire requests your presence."
King Thalion raised a brow. "Bring him in."
Xavier strode through the doorway with that same arrogant confidence that made Lysander's skin crawl. His golden eyes swept the room until they landed on the trembling prince beside his mother.
"Your Majesties," he said with a bow deep enough to be called respectful, "I've come to ask permission to personally escort Prince Lysander to the Royal Tailor. He deserves the finest fitting for the sacred ceremony."
Queen Calestina blinked. "Is it not customary to let the attendants handle that?"
Xavier smiled, all honey and poison. "Normally, yes. But Lysander is… special. I'd like to see the gown myself. Ensure it suits him." He turned to Lysander, voice dropping. "I want him perfect."
Lysander's breath hitched. He pushed back his chair slowly. "I—I don't want to—"
Before he could finish, King Thalion's chair scraped the marble with a sharp screech. The king turned to his son, eyes sharp as daggers.
"You will go," he said, voice low and thunderous. "You will not shame this family with your dramatics."
Lysander's lips parted, but no sound came. He looked to his mother—but she stayed silent, eyes downcast.
"Do I make myself clear?" Thalion's voice dropped further, a dark undercurrent of threat in every syllable.
Lysander nodded stiffly, tears welling behind his lashes. "Yes… Your Majesty."
Xavier offered his hand with a wolfish grin.
Lysander didn't take it.
Mira came up quietly, bowing her head. "I'll accompany His Highness."
Xavier's eyes lingered on her but said nothing as they left.
---
The carriage rocked gently, but inside, Lysander's world tilted dangerously with every passing second.
He kept his gaze fixed outside the window. Trees passed in a blur. His hands clenched the folds of his robe, knuckles white.
Xavier leaned in closer, voice velvet and sin. "You're very quiet, little angel."
Lysander flinched at the pet name.
"I was imagining," Xavier continued, brushing his fingers along Lysander's wrist, "how you'll look walking down that aisle in red. That veil won't hide those lips… or those thighs."
Lysander yanked his hand away. "Don't speak to me like that."
Xavier chuckled. "Why not? You're going to be mine soon. I might as well taste the words before I taste the rest."
Mira made a sharp sound of disgust, but Xavier ignored her.
"The gown's color was my idea," he whispered. "Red. The color of desire. Of blood. Of ruined innocence."
Lysander's mouth went dry.
"I want them to know what belongs to me," Xavier murmured. "Every inch of you… wrapped in crimson."
---
The Royal Tailor's atelier was a luxurious shop filled with velvet drapes, silk bolts, and mirrored walls that made escape feel impossible.
Mira stayed at Lysander's side as seamstresses fluttered like birds, measuring and pinning.
Then Xavier snapped his fingers.
"Try the fitted version."
The tailor hesitated. "But—His Highness's body—"
"Now," Xavier ordered.
Mira looked at the gown they brought forward—tight, low at the chest, cinched at the waist. It hugged every inch of the body. The slit in the side revealed too much leg. The neckline too much collarbone. The red veil glimmered with dark gold embroidery. It looked more like a bridal sacrifice than a ceremonial robe.
Lysander's face went pale. "I can't wear that."
"You'll look divine," Xavier said, stepping behind him. "Try it on. Now."
"I—I said no—"
King Thalion's glare flashed through Lysander's mind. The threat. The disappointment. The punishment.
Trembling, Lysander stepped behind the curtain.
Moments later, he emerged, the fabric clinging to him like a second skin. The gown constricted his breath, outlining every contour of his delicate frame.
Xavier's eyes darkened.
"Breathtaking."
He walked up behind Lysander, placing a heavy hand on his waist—making the smaller prince jolt.
"Don't—!" Lysander whispered harshly, cheeks burning in humiliation.
Xavier leaned down, his lips nearly grazing the curve of Lysander's ear. "This is what a husband does. Touch. Claim. Own."
Mira's fists clenched at her sides. She wanted to scream, to rip the gown apart and wrap Lysander in a blanket of steel.
But she couldn't.
Not yet.
---
The ride back to the palace was worse.
Xavier sat too close. His hand brushed Lysander's knee. His voice never stopped whispering filth. Mira placed herself between them as much as possible, but it did little to stop the invading presence.
When they reached the gates, Xavier turned and grabbed Lysander's chin.
"Smile for me, angel."
Lysander recoiled, but Xavier was faster. He leaned in and pressed a firm, possessive kiss to Lysander's cheek.
"Until next time," he purred.
Lysander didn't speak. He didn't even blink.
He walked into the palace like a puppet with broken strings. Mira followed, carrying every bag in silence.
They reached his chambers.
Lysander opened the door, stepped inside—
—and slammed it shut.
---
The moment the lock clicked, Lysander crumbled.
He tore off the gown, shaking, desperate for air. He staggered into the shower and turned the water to scalding. Steam filled the room.
Then he scrubbed.
Again. And again.
Fingernails against skin. Rubbing until it burned. Until red welts bloomed on his arms, his chest, his thighs. Until the water was filled with sobs that wouldn't stop no matter how hard he bit his tongue.
"Disgusting…" he choked. "I feel disgusting…"
He slid down the wall, curling beneath the water, arms over his knees.
"Why me?"
---
Far across the veil of light and shadow, in a land built on obsidian stone and fire-touched skies, Raelith roared.
His hand slammed against a column, stone cracking beneath his palm.
Something was wrong.
He could feel it now—deeper than blood. Deeper than time.
She's suffering almost everyday.
The mark over his heart burned—alive again.
Zarayan entered, cloak fluttering like shadows. "Your Majesty. You must calm yourself—"
"I can't feel her!" Raelith snarled. "I can sense her, but I can't see her!"
He dropped to his knees before the infernal mirror. "Show me her face. Show me my light!"
Zarayan whispered, drawing runes in the air. The mirror shimmered, rippled—then a face began to form.
Blurry. Shimmering.
White hair. Blue, star-filled eyes. A beauty too pure to belong to this world.
Raelith's heart stopped.
His hands trembled. "That's… her?"
The image twisted—
And then the mirror shattered.
Raelith flinched, glass slicing across his hand. Blood pooled at his feet.
"NO!" he roared, so loudly the very sky trembled. Demonic birds scattered. The black sun flickered.
Zarayan said nothing. His power could only do so much. The bond was damaged—his magic frayed by centuries of absence.
"She's alive," Raelith growled, rising with blood-stained palms. "I felt her. But I can't reach her."
Zarayan stepped back. "You need to wait. You are not whole, your majesty. Your power—"
"My power means NOTHING without her!"
Raelith's eyes flared crimson, veins glowing with molten fury. "If I have to burn the heavens to find her… I will."