Dawn spilled softly into the room, golden light pooling at the edges of the curtains and stretching across the tangled sheets. The quiet hum of the waking world hadn't reached them yet. It was still the kind of silence that clung to dreams—the kind that lingered after passion had lted into peace.
Vyan stirred, his arm lazily draped over Iyana's waist, their limbs entwined like vines. Her skin was warm against his, her cheek nestled against his shoulder. She was breathing steadily, eyes closed, though her brows twitched every now and then—as if her thoughts were still dancing sowhere between the night before and the world now peeking in through the windows.
He smiled to himself, a tired, content kind of smile, and gently tucked the blanket up over her bare shoulders. The room had gotten cooler with the break of dawn. His hand lingered for a second longer on her arm before he leaned down to press a soft kiss to the top of her head, letting his lips sink into her hair.
Careful not to disturb her, he slipped out of bed and reached for his clothes. He found his pants on the floor—how they'd ended up across the room, he had a few ideas—and tugged them on with a quiet grunt. His shirt followed, wrinkled and barely clinging to dignity. As he buttoned it up halfway, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
His chest and neck were covered with red marks, so faint, so angry and deep. A particularly bold bite stood out just below his collarbone.
He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "Well, damn." Iyana really wanted to mark him as hers, if not on paper, at least this was how.
From behind him, a familiar voice mumbled groggily, "Where are you going?"
He turned around to find Iyana sitting up, the blanket slipping down and revealing the flushed skin of her chest—similarly kissed with red, though hers bore fewer bites. She had a more possessive streak than he did, after all.
"Sorry," he said, walking over with quiet steps. "Did I wake you up?"
"No," she yawned, rubbing her eyes. "I never fell asleep to begin with."
He reached the bed and gently pulled the blanket back over her shoulders, kissing her cheek as he did. She leaned into it, warm and unresisting.
"Then you really should. I'll be back in half an hour," he murmured.
Her eyes flicked up to his, still heavy with sleep but glinting with curiosity. "You didn't tell . Where are you going?"
"Ho," he said simply, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I just need to check if everything went alright last night."
"Should I co with you?" she asked, starting to shift under the blanket.
But he shook his head and gently eased her back down, his palm cradling the back of her head as he settled her against the pillows.
"No. You should sleep." He kissed her forehead, lingering a second longer. "I'll join you soon. Then we can sleep in till noon, hmm?"
A lazy smile pulled at her lips. The coronation ceremony wasn't until the evening. There was no urgency.
His fingers combed through her hair softly, and she closed her eyes, feeling the weight of his care more than his words. She was so tired. They both were. And for a fleeting mont, this unfamiliar bed, this unknown room, this delusional bubble away from everything else—it felt like safety.
"Okay…" she whispered, already half-asleep, "Be back safely."
He leaned down and brushed a kiss against her lips, featherlight but full of sothing unsaid.
"I will," he murmured.
———
A soft swish echoed through the air as Vyan materialized in the grand hall of his manor, the shimr of teleportation magic fading like smoke from his coat.
And then… he paused.
The marble floors were streaked in drying blood, as were the once-cream curtains, now soaked in crimson art. One of the armchairs appeared to have been stabbed. The velvet was slashed open, stuffing spilling like entrails.
"My poor living room…"
A polite cough ca from the side.
"Good morning, Master," Benedict greeted with a bow so graceful it felt slightly illegal in a room this gory. "How was your date?"
Vyan brushed nonexistent dust off his shoulder, as if that could distract from the bloodied battlefield around him. "It was good," he replied. "Sorry for not coming to the church last night."
"There's no need to apologize," Benedict said smoothly. "You had already instructed to leave if neither you nor Lady Iyana arrived by midnight."
Vyan humd in acknowledgnt. He had, indeed. Last night, in a spur-of-the-mont suggestion (read: slightly chaotic, heavily unhinged idea), he'd told Iyana that if she agreed to marry him, they'd head straight to the church run by Benedict's family—the Church of the Goddess Hecate—for a midnight wedding, no fuss, no audience. He'd even asked Benedict to be the officiant.
But Iyana, ever the rational to his impulsiveness, had simply made him understand that he was being stupid.
He cleared his throat and scanned the still-bloody room. "Why hasn't the rotten blood been cleaned up yet?"
Imdiately, the servants who had been lingering nearby snapped into action like guilty cats caught napping on the furniture. Scrubbing brushes, mops, and brooms sprang to life. The sound of panicked cleaning filled the hall.
Benedict replied without missing a beat. "The intruders put up quite a fight. It went on for… quite a while. And it appears our knights took their sweet ti dealing with them. They acted like vengeful beasts and created a ss of the manor. I'd appreciate it if you reprimanded them, Master."
"Okay, will do." He absolutely will not. He'd reward his knights. They committed such a bloody massacre, only out of a sense of loyalty for him and his family. They didn't act like a beast on normal occasions; they were all good people at heart. "Anyway, did you send the intruders' bloodied swords to their master?"
"Just as you ordered," Benedict replied with a faint smile that said you are terrifying, and I support that.
"And the bodies?"
"Abandoned at the gate of the imperial cetery."
"Excellent." Vyan gave a satisfied nod like he had just confird brunch reservations instead of a strategic corpse delivery. "Now—can you prepare a change of clothes for and Iyana?"
"Of course, Master. Please wait a few minutes."
Benedict turned to leave, then paused.
"Oh," Vyan said, as if rembering sothing. "And get a healing potion."
Benedict didn't even need to think. "In my opinion, stamina and fatigue-curing potions would be more appropriate."
Vyan froze. His ears went red.
The silence that followed could've snapped.
"…Y-Yes. Those, then."
And that's when he realized it. Not just Benedict, but all the servants in the living room—maids, knights, footn—were doing their absolute best not to make eye contact with him. Or worse, they were. With smug, knowing little glances. One maid had her lip bitten to keep from smiling. A young footman was quietly wiping blood off the floor with a little too much glee.
Oh no. Oh no.
As if twisting the dagger further, Benedict added as he turned to leave, "Also, please refrain from bathing at the hotel. When you return with Lady Iyana, take a proper bath here. We will have warm healing water prepared. It should soothe any marks… lingering on the skin."
He didn't even wait for a response. He simply walked off, entirely too smug for soone who didn't openly smile.
Vyan stood rooted in place, mortified. A man could only take so much.
Clyde teasing him? He could roll his eyes and throw a punch. Maybe even roast him back. But Benedict? With his quiet dignity and saintly aura? That was psychological warfare.
And the servants—oh, the servants. The loyal staff he fed and paid and protected—now looking at him like he was the protagonist in one of those cheap romance novels with steamy covers.
Vyan groaned under his breath and covered his face with one hand.
"Great," he muttered. "I'm never looking any of them in the eyes again."
He glanced toward the hallway and seriously considered hiding in a closet.
Just in case soone else had more potions to recomnd.
———
A loud crash echoed through the chamber as porcelain shattered against the stone wall, fragnts of an heirloom vase raining to the ground like jagged snowflakes.
Sienna was a storm wrapped in velvet, rage curling through her like wildfire as she grabbed another object—a crystal perfu decanter this ti—and hurled it across the room. It smashed into a mirror, splintering both glass and reflection. Her breathing was ragged, her chest heaving as she sent yet another priceless artifact flying. The room had started as royal; now it looked like the aftermath of a tantrum in hell.
Blood glistened along her fingers, trickling from the sharp edge of a broken fra she'd thrown without thinking. She didn't care. Her pain only fueled her fury.
"All of your subordinates are useless!" she shrieked, her voice sharp as a whip crack. "Not only did they fail to kill your sister, they couldn't even get rid of her lapdog!"
Her hazel eyes began to glow gold, fiery and unhinged, almost too bright for her face. She clawed at her hair in frustration and turned to the man sitting quietly in the corner like a static puppet.
"I've no choice," she hissed, eyes blazing, "but to use my own powers now."
"I don't see why you didn't from the beginning," Easton said dryly.
The slap ca like thunder.
Hard. Quick. Loud.
Her palm stung and his cheek bore the red mark—but Easton didn't flinch, didn't move, didn't react. His hollow green eyes stared at her as if she were just noise. As if he had long since drowned in silence.
"How dare you taunt ?" she seethed, voice shaking with a blend of fear and pride. "Don't forget, you're mine. If I tell you to slit your own throat, you'll do it."
He didn't respond.
He didn't need to. The deadness in his eyes said everything: he probably would.
It's not that he didn't have a mind of his own anymore. But he knew his mind would cease to fight back as soon as she barked an order. He was just a doll now. He had no desire to do anything. This woman here was planning his sister's demise, and he could do nothing.
Because it was his own fault. He himself invited the snake into his ho—he, in fact, married the snake. Now he had no choice but to bear the consequences of his choices. It was a noose of his own making.
Sienna turned her back to him, pacing like a caged animal. "Don't you understand?" she whispered, her voice dropping into a tremble. "If I openly use dark magic in this empire… I'll be sentenced to death. No trial. No pardon."
She pressed her bleeding hand to her lips, biting the skin as if trying to ground herself. "But I've got no choice now. I've waited, I've planned, I've suffered. If I don't use all my cards… I'll never wear the crown. And if I don't beco empress—" her voice cracked, "—then what was any of this for?"
Desperation laced her every word, burning through her anger like acid through silk. Her glowing eyes dimd for a mont as she looked down at her hands—her blood, her ss, her loss. Red smudged the cuffs of her gown. She felt sick.
Her gaze drifted to Easton. Her husband. Her pawn. Her prisoner.
He didn't even look at her.
A bitter laugh escaped her. "I bet Vyan wouldn't have let Iyana bleed like this," she whispered to herself. "He would've stopped the world just to keep a scratch off her skin."
But here she was. Standing alone. Bleeding. Broken. With nothing but borrowed magic and shaky ambition keeping her upright.
What did she have if not power?
Not love.
Not dignity.
Not a future worth envying.
Just a hunger.
A single, desperate desire burning her alive from the inside out.
She had to beco the empress.
No matter what. No matter who she had to destroy.
Because if she didn't… then she was nothing. And nothing terrified her more than being irrelevant.
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