I woke up feeling utterly exhausted, my body heavy as if I'd been dragged through thorns all night. Groaning, I pushed myself up on the unfamiliar bed, the soft furs and dark linens shifting beneath me. For a moment, everything blurred—where was I? The room was vast and dimly lit, stone walls rising high, a single narrow window high above letting in pale, cold light. This wasn't the brothel attic. This was something far worse.
"What's going on?" I muttered, pressing my palms to my temples as a sharp headache throbbed behind my eyes. My legs ached fiercely when I swung them over the edge of the bed; every muscle burned. I stepped down onto the icy stone floor and immediately winced, limping forward as pain shot up my calves and thighs.
Gosh, what is this pain? Then it crashed over me like icy water—the memories of the dungeon, the Kyokai beast, those glowing demonic eyes, the way it had pinned me down… and then Ramon. The useless Queen and King, so desperate to save their "heir" that they'd sacrifice me without a second thought. I wondered bitterly if anyone outside these walls knew the truth: how the royal family fed helpless girls like me to their monstrous son just to keep him calm. Did the servants whisper about it in fear? Or had they all grown numb to the horror?
I dragged my feet across the cold floor, each step a reminder of how close I'd come to dying. That smirk of Ramon's replayed in my mind—cold, empty, nothing human about it. It sent a fresh shiver through me. I have to get out of here. Find the exit. Now.
I was almost at the heavy wooden door when it swung open on silent hinges.
A woman stepped inside—around fifty, stern-faced, with gray-streaked hair pulled into a tight bun. She wore a simple black-and-silver uniform like the maids I'd seen before, but her posture was straighter, more authoritative. In her arms, she carried a folded stack of clothes.
"You need to get dressed in these and follow me downstairs, young lady," she said briskly, thrusting the bundle toward me before I could even open my mouth to protest.
I stared at the clothes: the same crisp black dress with silver trim that she wore—practical, modest, clearly a servant's uniform. My stomach twisted. So this was it? They weren't just going to feed me to the beast—they wanted me to look the part first, like some twisted maid-in-waiting.
"Why?" I asked quietly, taking the clothes but not moving to change yet.
The woman gave me a long, unreadable look. "Because His Majesty commands it. Now hurry."
"Okay… give me a minute," I said, forcing politeness into my voice. She looked almost kind—tired eyes, faint lines of worry around her mouth—but I wasn't fooled. Anyone who worked in this palace, who walked these halls knowing what happened in the dungeon, couldn't truly be nice. They were complicit, whether by fear or loyalty.
I stepped into the attached bathroom, the door clicking shut behind me with a finality that made my skin crawl. The space was luxurious—marble floors veined with silver, a deep claw-foot tub, gilded mirrors—but none of it felt welcoming. The air was thick with steam from the hot water I'd turned on full blast, yet I couldn't shake the prickling sensation at the back of my neck, like invisible eyes were boring into me from every shadow. I kept glancing over my shoulder, half-expecting claws to burst through the tiles.
I showered quickly, scrubbing hard as if I could wash away the dungeon dirt, the beast's sulfur stink, the King's cold grip. The soap smelled faintly of pine and something metallic—probably the palace's signature scent. Every few seconds I froze, listening for footsteps outside the door, for breathing that wasn't mine. Nothing. Just the rush of water and my own ragged heartbeat.
When I finally shut off the taps, my legs were trembling—not just from the cold tile underfoot, but from the bone-deep certainty that I wasn't alone, even now.
I dried off hastily and slipped into the black-and-silver uniform. To my surprise, it fit perfectly: the high collar sat just right against my throat, the sleeves ended precisely at my wrists, the skirt fell exactly to mid-calf. No pulling, no gaping, no tightness. How did they know my size so exactly? Had someone measured me while I was unconscious? The thought made bile rise in my throat.
I stepped back into the bedroom. Mrs. Claudia was still there, standing patiently by the window with her arms folded. Her name tag glinted in the low light: Mrs. Claudia. She looked up as I emerged.
"I'm done," I said quietly.
She gave a single nod, expression unreadable, then turned and started walking without another word. I followed, bare feet silent on the stone corridor.
The palace was breathtaking in a cold, intimidating way. High vaulted ceilings painted with swirling silver wolves under blood-red moons, tapestries that depicted ancient battles between beasts and shadowy figures, crystal chandeliers that caught the torchlight like frozen stars. Marble columns rose like silent sentinels. Every detail screamed power and old money. But beauty didn't matter—not when every hallway felt like a cage with prettier bars. I scanned for exits, for windows low enough to reach, for doors that weren't guarded. Nothing obvious. Everything was designed to keep people in.
We descended a wide staircase, the banister carved with snarling wolf heads. My pulse quickened with every step. I had to get out. Tonight, tomorrow, soon—before they decided the beast was hungry again.
We reached an enormous living room—or perhaps it was more of a receiving hall. Massive fireplaces roared at either end, casting long, dancing shadows. Plush dark rugs muffled our footsteps. And there they were.
The King sat in a high-backed chair like a throne, posture rigid, golden eyes already fixed on the doorway. Beside him, the Queen—Samantha—lounged with practiced elegance, her silver hair pinned in an elaborate twist, lips curved in a smile that never reached her eyes. Something about her grated on me instantly: the way she tilted her head, the false warmth in her voice, the way she looked at me like I was a mildly interesting pet she'd just acquired. She annoyed the hell out of me.
And then there was him.
Ramon sat beside her on a low velvet sofa, calm as if nothing had ever happened. No scars visible now, no torn clothes—just clean dark shirt and trousers, hair still slightly damp like he'd showered too. He looked almost… normal. Almost human. But I knew better. I'd felt those massive paws pinning me, smelled the sulfur on his breath. That smirk from earlier replayed in my mind—cold, predatory, empty of anything kind.
Mrs. Claudia stopped at the threshold and curtsied slightly.
"Your Royal Highnesses, the girl is here," she announced.
All three sets of eyes turned to me.
The King's gaze was clinical, assessing. The Queen's smile widened, almost maternal.
And Ramon's… his storm-gray eyes locked on mine, and there it was again—that weird, unreadable expression. Hunger? Curiosity? Something darker? It made my skin crawl, like he was already imagining how I'd taste. Like he was barely holding himself back from pouncing right there in front of his parents.
"My dear, come here," the Queen said sweetly, patting the cushion beside her.
I froze. Looked behind me instinctively—no one else there.
"You, my dear Flora," she clarified, her voice dripping honey.
I frowned, the name hitting like a slap. Flora. Again.
No. That wasn't right.
My real name was Elena.
The certainty settled in my chest like a stone dropping into deep water. I didn't know how I knew, or why the memory had been buried so deep, but it was there now—sharp, undeniable. Elena. Not Flora.
I walked toward her slowly, each step feeling heavier than the last, until I stood directly in front of the Queen. Her smile was still fixed in place—too wide, too perfect—like a mask that might crack if she moved too quickly.
"Listen to what the consultant has to say, dear," she said sweetly, her voice laced with that false warmth that made my skin prickle.
I glanced over my shoulder, following the direction of her gesture.
An old man stood in the far corner of the room, half-hidden in the shadow of a tall bookshelf. He wore long, dark robes embroidered with faint silver runes, his white hair thin and wispy, falling past his shoulders. His eyes were pale, almost milky, and they fixed on me with unnerving intensity.
I flinched hard. How had I not noticed him before? He'd been standing there the whole time, silent as a statue, blending into the dim light like he belonged to the palace walls more than to the living world.
The old man stepped forward, leaning slightly on a gnarled wooden staff topped with a carved wolf's head. His voice was dry and raspy, like pages turning in an ancient book.
"Listen, my child. I know you are aware of what happened last night—how the beast was calm in your presence."
I flicked my gaze between him and the royal family. Ramon sat slouched on the sofa, arms crossed, looking bored. The King's golden eyes were steady and unreadable. The Queen watched me like I was a puzzle she couldn't wait to solve.
Ramon rolled his eyes dramatically, the motion so exaggerated it almost looked practiced.
"You have the key inside you to tame a Kyokai beast," the consultant continued, his tone calm and certain, as if he were stating the weather.
I stared at him.
What the heck?
I couldn't even tame my own hungry stomach from growling every time it was past mealtime. I was wolfless. Powerless. Defective. No claws, no fangs, no inner strength to speak of. And now this ancient stranger was telling me I held some magical "key" to controlling a demonic monster that had nearly torn me apart?