You've heard it before, haven't you?
The Duke's Illusion. The mysterious mask that shrouds his presence. The enchantment that turns whispers into fear and faces into questions.
But have you ever wondered what hides beneath it? What the illusion truly conceals? Well—this is where the truth begins to unravel.
Before that let's me tell you what happened right after Darian asked me to sit on his thighs
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I was too shocked to talk so I just sat on him while covering my face. I am 100 percent sure that my face turned tomato red because it started burning so much I thought I will faint.
The moment my butt touched his thighs, I suddenly started feeling dizzy and then the time paused.
Like a real pause. Everything around me turned gray even Darian did.
'WTF is happening to me right now' I said internally while touching Darian's cheeks which were hard like a statue.
The second I tried to process what was happening, a strange voice started speaking out of nowhere.
< Lioren's Illusion. The magic that cloaked his presence, reshaping beauty into menace, fragility into strength. But do you know what lies beneath it? Do you truly know what hides behind the mask the Duke never lets the world see?
If not, then let's go back—two years ago.>>
The vision began like a whisper.
It wasn't real, and yet it felt too vivid to be imagination. The air shimmered faintly, and the world shifted—walls turning to mist, torches flickering to life in a darker, colder time.
And there they were.
Two figures in the Duke's study, one cloaked in quiet shadows, the other trembling with mana that pulsed like a living storm.
Darian Solari stood there barely seventeen, face still carrying the boyish traces of someone not yet hardened by war—and before him, the Duke of the North.
The Duke's illusion was cracking.
A broken mirror of light hovered around him, fragments of magic bleeding into the air like smoke. His body trembled under the weight of the spell, and then—slowly, painfully—it fell apart.
The transformation was silent, but it felt thunderous.
The dark-haired, broad-shouldered man that everyone feared dissolved before Darian's eyes, leaving behind someone else.
The real Lioren.
His hair no longer a deep, shadowy shade of black—spilled like silk down his shoulders, softer, tinted with silver hue that caught every sliver of light. His skin was pale, almost luminous, fragile in a way that didn't fit the cruel rumors surrounding him.
His features were delicate, sculpted almost like porcelain, his lashes long enough to cast shadows over his golden eyes.
And his eyes—gods, his eyes—were nothing like the ruthless gaze Darian had come to know. They were wide, delicate, golden with a hint of sadness that made even silence ache.
And those lips… soft, pale, almost delicate, with the faintest curve that never decided whether it wanted to smile or stay quiet.
They weren't the kind of lips meant for words like "Duke" or "war," but for secrets whispered in the dark.
He was neither the Duke nor the monster everyone used to call him, just a boy who looked like he had been made to be beautiful—and hated for it.
For a long moment, Darian said nothing. His throat tightened as memories flooded back: the laughter of their childhood, the way Lio had always smiled when he was still small enough to be called gentle. Before the illusion. Before the cruelty. Before the loneliness.
He remembered how Darian used to tease him about his hair, calling him "moonlit." Lio used to laugh. But then… one day, he stopped laughing altogether.
Now, looking at him again after years apart, Darian finally understood why.
"Lio," he whispered. "You… changed."
Lio's lips trembled. "No," he said softly, his voice the same—quiet, precise, but full of something broken. "This is what I've always been."
His gaze dropped to the floor, "My father," he began, his tone trembling, "never liked seeing me like this. He said I looked wrong. Like a mistake."
He smiled then, a smile that wasn't real—too calm to be sane. "He said men of the North should look like warriors, not like porcelain dolls."
The boy in the vision clenched his fists. "After my mother died, he stopped calling me by name. Just called me that thing. He said he'd rather I died than live looking like her."
The words hung like ash in the air.
"So he created this illusion," Lio whispered. "for me to become what he wanted. Stronger, colder, crueler." His hand trembled, glowing faintly with the fading remnants of the illusion spell. "It worked. Everyone started fearing me instead of pitying me. That's what he wanted, right?"
His gaze was unbearable.
Darian took a slow step forward, his voice trembling. "You didn't have to—"
"I had to," Lio cut in. "You don't understand, Darian. If I didn't, I'd be dead by now."
The words hit like a blade.
The illusion flickered again—silver melting into shadow, softness turning to steel. His real face vanished behind the mask the world demanded of him. But just before the transformation completed, Lio looked up—his golden eyes still visible beneath the shifting spell.
"Do you think," he asked quietly, "I can finally be free... But what about the others and my lands? "
Darian opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
The vision blurred and just like that—it ended.
The world snapped back to the present, the air colder, heavier.
I gasped softly, blinking as the illusion of the past faded. But the feeling it left behind lingered like a wound: pity, sorrow, and something that hurt even deeper—understanding.
Because now I and you knew the truth. Lioren's illusion wasn't vanity. It was survival.
It wasn't to hide beauty. It was to bury pain.
And maybe—just maybe—that was what made it so tragic. Because once you know the real reason, you'll never see the illusion the same way again.