Lumielle's flowing coral pink hair…
The hypnotic pull of her jade green eyes…
The sway of her hips, the maternal warmth she carried like sunlight…
And the soothing balm of her voice—soft, serene, like a lullaby spun from moonlight.
CRUNCH.
The fantasy shattered beneath the sound of debris crushed underfoot.
At the uppermost floor of the Crownspire Tower, Stynx wandered through the ruins left behind by the fiery blast several moons ago. The scent of soot still lingered, stubbornly clinging to the charred stone.
The tower had once been the sanctuary that nested the woman he fascinated. Now it was a tomb—silent, broken, hollow.
…Is she really gone?
Whether she had perished in the explosion or vanished into the wind, he still couldn't believe it. He couldn't accept it. The palace no longer felt like the same place. Without her presence, it was just a maze of corridors. Cold. Empty.
He moved like a ghost, unsure of his own purpose. Looking back, he wasn't so certain he could have done it—carried out Lord Vaerythos's orders and killed her with his own hands. He felt… if he could just see her again, just once more, he'd have known the answer the moment their eyes met.
He remembered when he first arrived in the capital. How foolish he'd been to wander into the city alone, desperate for air, for space from the perpetual scowls of the aristocrats. He craved for something real.
The common folk recognized him instantly.
Their eyes turned sharp; their mouths cruel.
The bastard son.
The blemish on the royal line.
The people were already weighed down by the king's declining health. News of a concubine and her illegitimate child sent tensions boiling.
Stynx was immediately pelted with rocks and curses alike—one stone slicing beneath his eye. Then, with impeccable timing, as if summoned by the gods themselves, she stepped between them.
Lumielle.
With her hand raised like a queen and her voice ringing out with authority, she commanded silence—and received it. The crowd stilled in place. Her presence alone seemed to bend the atmosphere.
Without a word, she hovered over to him like a deity and smiled. A real smile—gentle, maternal, genuine. She hummed a soft tune as her palm grazed his wound, and the pain faded like mist under the sun.
Then she turned to the people and said something that still echoed in his soul:
"A child has no say in being born. That choice belongs to the parents. But every child does have free will and should be judged not by their blood, but by their choices."
It was the first time anyone had spoken for him.
Now, that voice was gone.
He blinked back to the present. His boots ground against glass and debris as he entered what remained of her chambers. The place was wrecked—gutted by fire and rage. The bed was scorched to the frame and smothered in blackened rubble. The standing mirror lay in shards across the floor. Her wardrobe still stood, scorched but standing, doors slightly ajar.
Something drew him toward it.
As if caught in a trance, Stynx reached for the nearby dresser instead. His fingers twitched as he slowly opened a drawer, the scent of lavender and ash curling into the air. He reached in and began sifting through the silken undergarments. His breath caught in his throat as he held up one particularly attractive chemise, lifting it into the dusty light.
She wore this…
He closed his eyes, imagining the way the fabric clung to her body, the gentle curves, the graceful slope of her collarbone, the fullness of her hips. His cheeks flushed as he pressed the fabric to his face and inhaled, lips parting as if caught in a spell.
CRUNCH.
The unmistakable sound of someone approaching jolted him from his trance and he froze.
***
Arabelle—Princess Lumielle's senior lady-in-waiting—offered a graceful bow to Reneal before excusing herself from the second-floor lobby. As her quiet steps carried her toward the third floor, her practiced smile gradually slipped away, replaced by sorrow.
After everything that had happened—the blast, the fire, the collapse of the upper floors—Reneal had shown remarkable kindness by taking in all of Lumielle's loyal servants.
Many of them, including Arabelle, had served her since childhood. Though they were eternally grateful for the roof over their heads, their hearts remained fractured. They missed the princess deeply.
No one spoke it aloud, but they all felt the same—Lumielle didn't deserve the fate she suffered. Not someone so kind, so compassionate, so warm. Her mere presence had made their lives brighter. She was royalty, yes—but also family.
The ban on the tower's top floor had only been lifted the day before. After weeks of forensic investigation, the guild had finally withdrawn. And now, Arabelle found herself walking the corridor of ash and soot alone.
She had volunteered to ascend ahead of the others—partly out of duty, partly out of longing. If, by some miracle, the princess ever returned, she hoped to have preserved what she could for her. And if not… then at least some trace of Lumielle would remain. Something tangible. Something sacred.
As she stepped into the ruined lobby, the air felt heavy, as if even the ashes refused to forget. The door to the princess's chambers hung off its hinges.
She stepped inside and took a slow breath, fighting back the sting of nostalgia—but before she could fully take in the space—
Her eyes widened.
There he was.
Stynx, no longer the composed nobleman—no longer a sibling in mourning—but a man overcome by an ugly and twisted hunger. He was kneeling by the princess's dresser… face buried deep in her undergarments.
Arabelle's blood turned to fire. A wave of fury thundered through her veins. Her nostrils flared. Her eyes widened in disbelief. And her voice—usually so polite and refined—erupted.
"You sick, disgusting bastard!"
Startled, Stynx jerked his head up, face flushed, caught mid-depravity—but didn't move fast enough to escape her wrath.
"She's your sister!" Arabelle spat, storming across the room, each word a dagger. "Your sister! Your own flesh and blood, and here you are—groping at her things like a dog in heat! How dare you defile her like this!"
"Arabelle—"
"No!" she barked, trembling with rage. "Don't you dare say my name! Don't you dare try to justify this filth!"
His eyes flickered with something—shame? Guilt?—but she pressed on, jabbing a finger toward him.
"If you actually cared for her," she seethed, "you would've stood by her when she needed you. You would've fought with her—not watched from the shadows while she got torn apart by politics and backstabbers!"
Something inside him snapped.
The sorrow and pain on Stynx's face twisted into something unhinged. "I DID CARE!" he howled.
Before she could react, he lunged.
His hands wrapped around her throat, slamming her into the dresser. She screamed, nails clawing, legs kicking—eyes wide with terror. But his grip only tightened.
"I DID CARE!" he shrieked again, eyes burning with madness. "I didn't want this! I didn't want to lose her! I just… I just wanted to ascend the throne, to become king, to finally be seen! Then I would've been in a position to protect her! But now it's too late! Lumielle… Lumielle's already…"
Arabelle's gasps grew faint. Her kicks weaker. And then, finally, she stilled. Her body went limp in his arms, eyes frozen open in glassy disbelief.
Silence reclaimed the room.
Stynx stared down at her, his breath ragged, fingers still around her neck. Horror crept over him as his rage cooled. He released her body and stumbled back, shaking, chest heaving.
"Wh-What have I done…"
He staggered to the broken window, bracing himself on the jagged frame, seeking air, a second chance, anything to calm the panic clawing at his chest. He turned in desperation, eyes darting for an answer, a solution to his crimes—suddenly, as if the devil himself had willed it, he spied Hynes approaching the tower.
The fool. The leech. The man who had once committed unspeakable acts with nothing more than one of Lumielle's handkerchiefs.
Stynx held his breath.
What would he do if given something far more… sentimental? Something… intimate?
Eureka!
An idea struck like lightning.
His gaze drifted to the shattered mirror on the floor. His reflection grinned back at him—wide, deranged, and gleaming with cruel ingenuity.
He had a plan.