The thought gnawed at her like teeth in the dark.
'Since how long was he playing with my heart?'
How much of her was still her—and how much had he already hollowed out?
It wasn't just the shame that burned. It was the doubt.
If he had done this to her—clever, sharp, stubborn Sylvera—without her sensing a whisper of the snare… what chance did she have now?
'None,' the shadows seemed to murmur. 'None at all.'
And then his voice cut through them.
"Still wondering?"
The dungeon door sighed open like a dying breath. Dusk poured in behind him, painting the stone in veins of blood-red light. His steps made no sound, yet every one of them thundered in her bones.
Sylvera rose before she could stop herself. Spine straight. Chin high. Pretending her pulse wasn't clawing at her throat.
He came into view like a sin draped in midnight. Black attire clung to his frame, the cursed crown glinting on his hair—violet jewels pulsing faintly, like heartbeats that weren't his.
His eyes found her. Silver. Sharp. A little amused. Entirely merciless.
Her mouth went dry.
"How I did it," he said softly, like reading her thoughts aloud. "How far it goes." His head tipped, predator-curious. "You want a demonstration?"
Before she could move, his hand lifted.
No words. No flourish. Just a flick of fingers—and the world obeyed.
The air turned solid.
It clamped around her with invisible teeth, crushing tight until her gasp hit the silence like shattering glass. She jerked instinctively, tried to dodge—but the space itself had caged her, seamless and absolute.
She reached for magic. It bolted like a startled deer. Her power curled into a whimpering knot and would not come.
Nothing. Not even a spark.
And worse—the castle moved.
The walls groaned low and reverent. Chains swayed in rhythm with his breath. Shadows slid toward his boots like ink seeking the brush. Even the ground trembled—not in fear. In worship.
Sylvera's throat went dry.
"Still wondering about my limits?" he asked, smiling that smile without warmth.
He closed the distance. One step. Another. Calm. Deliberate.
She backed away, every heartbeat a drumbeat of panic, until her shoulders slammed stone. No more room to retreat.
And still, he came.
Until his presence filled the world. Until his breath ghosted over her lips. Until her pulse betrayed her, hammering loud enough for him to hear.
He didn't kiss her.
He smirked.
Slow. Infuriating. Sin curling at the edges of a mouth too cruel for beauty.
His hand lifted, fingers brushing her jaw like silk over steel. A thumb ghosted the corner of her mouth, lingering with obscene gentleness.
"Stop wondering, little witch," he whispered, voice sliding like smoke against her skin. "You'll get nothing from it."
Her breath broke. Not because of the words—but because now, she knew.
This wasn't mere sorcery.
It was older. Wilder. The taste of dust and fire, of things that had watched stars die and oceans claw their way from stone. It thrummed through the air with the weight of forgotten gods.
Lorian wasn't a mage anymore.
The man had drowned.
And what wore his skin now was vast.
Merciless.
Hungry.
And the crown—gods help her, she saw it now.
It wasn't just cursed. It was alive.
Light bled from the violet jewels, slow and pulsing, in rhythm with something that felt like breath. Its glow crawled over Lorian's face like a lover's touch, sinking into his skin. Feeding. Thriving.
The truth hit her like a blade in the gut.
It didn't simply belong to him.
It had claimed him.
Made him more. Made him monstrous.
Every gift he'd ever had—his arcane talent, his feral cunning, his cruel, patient creativity—the crown drank and multiplied, until the man she once knew flickered out beneath something vaster. His power wasn't a storm anymore. It was a kingdom of fire.
And he wore it like a second skin.
The cage of air bit tighter around her chest as the stones bent closer in reverence, as the chandeliers swayed in worship, as shadows curled like hounds at his feet.
This wasn't just display. It was a warning.
You cannot fight me.
You will never win.
Her lungs clawed for air. Her soul screamed like a glass splintering in a fist. And still—she stared back.
Because now she knew.
Exactly what kind of monster wore his skin.
And what it would take to break him.
She didn't wait long.
The revelation burned too hot to sit still with. She couldn't rot inside that bone-woven cage, not anymore—not knowing what lived behind his smile, what thrummed through his veins with every pulse of that crown.
So when the chance came, she took it.
No guards. No chains. No word from him. Just silence.
A mistake.
Or a test.
She didn't care.
Barefoot, breath shallow, she slipped through the door and into the belly of the castle.
The halls yawned before her like the throat of a beast—long, crooked corridors veined with faint violet light that crawled across the stone like living roots. The walls pulsed softly, a heartbeat buried in rock. The deeper she went, the colder it grew—not the cold of wind, but something that slithered into bone.
She passed doors she didn't dare open.
One stood ajar, revealing an altar slick with old blood. Another, a mirror that caught her gaze—and didn't give it back. Faces stared from the glass, hollow-eyed and screaming, their mouths moving in silent pleas. She ran.
The castle whispered as she moved.
Her name.
Over and over, like a prayer.
Then she found the door.
Sealed with silence, yet humming like a vein full of magic. When it opened beneath her trembling hand, light spilled out—cold, blue, and wrong.
The room was a shrine of glass.
Shelves towered to the ceiling, lined with crystal vials. Hundreds. Thousands. Each one swirling with pale light that shifted and coiled as though alive.
Sylvera stepped closer. The air burned cold against her lungs.
And then—she heard it.
A whisper.
Soft. Shivering. So faint she thought it was her own thought—
Until another joined it.
And another.
Her blood iced.
Souls.
They were souls.
Trapped. Bottled.
Still conscious. Still screaming.
The vials trembled as if sensing her. Voices brushed her ears like cobwebs. Some sobbed. Some begged. One whispered her name.
Sylvera staggered back, her nails biting into her palms. Her breath came ragged, her throat raw with the scream she wouldn't let loose.
Lorian wasn't just corrupted. He wasn't just cruel.
He was something else.
Something older.
Something that collected.
And gods—some of those voices felt familiar. Villagers. Travelers. Faces she'd seen once in sunlight. People she'd failed.
Her knees weakened. Her heart thundered.
She pressed her palm to the cold stone, forcing breath through her teeth, and swallowed the taste of iron rising in her throat.
There was no saving him.
No saving this place.
If she stayed, she'd end on that shelf—another whisper bleeding into the dark.
She turned and ran.
Not caring about the walls that breathed her name.
Not caring about the crown's shadow curling down the halls.
She didn't want revenge.
Didn't want answers.
Didn't even want justice.
She wanted out.
Before he realised what she knew.
Before he decided she was no longer his obsession—just another vial in the dark.