Chapter 48
Damier's boots struck the marble floor in steady, unhurried steps as he walked along the grand corridor leading to the King's chamber. The golden torches lining the walls cast flickering shadows across the high, vaulted ceiling. Guards in gleaming armor stiffened at the sight of him, their eyes lowering in respect as they stepped aside.
At the massive double doors carved with intricate dragons, two guards exchanged a quick, uneasy glance before pushing the heavy panels open. The hinges groaned under their weight, and Damier stepped into the opulent chamber.
King Malrith sat sprawled comfortably on an enormous couch draped in crimson silk, a goblet of dark wine in hand. His expression was lazy, but his eyes flickered with the calculation of a man who knew how dangerous his guest was. Slowly, he raised the goblet to his lips, taking a measured sip before speaking.
"Damier… it's nice to see you," he said with a thin smile.
Damier returned the smile, though his carried no warmth—only a faint, dangerous amusement. He walked forward with the grace of a predator, the air between them tightening with unspoken tension, and took the seat opposite the King.
"You've outdone yourself, Malrith," Damier said quietly, his voice cold enough to chill the air. He leaned back, his gaze sharp as a blade. "Arranging a marriage with the princess without informing me…" His eyes glinted, and for a brief moment, it felt as if the flames of his power were burning just beneath his skin.
Malrith shifted, the smug ease on his face faltering. He lowered his gaze for a moment, then met Damier's eyes again. "It was never my intention," he said quickly. "That witch of a wife of mine brought the idea before the elders. You know how they hunger for power… They want to tie the kingdoms together in ways I cannot control. But I can stop it. I can end it now. I swear to you, such matters will not proceed without your consent."
Damier's gaze was steady and unblinking. "I don't care about your petty kingdom politics, Malrith," he said, his tone deepening. "I'm honoring my part of our agreement. But…" He tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk curling his lips. "I think marrying the human princess may not be such a bad idea."
Malrith's brows shot up in disbelief. "You… you don't mind? Damier, she's a cursed—"
The air in the room seemed to shift violently as Damier's eyes flared with an almost unnatural fire. "Watch your tongue, Malrith," he said, voice low but laced with dangerous heat. "She is not cursed. You understand me?"
The King's throat tightened. His fingers flexed against the goblet, the metal bending slightly under his grip. Though fear prickled along his skin, Malrith straightened his back, masking his unease with a veneer of control. "Forgive me, Damier. If you have no objection to the marriage, then we shall move forward. However…" He hesitated, swirling the wine in his cup. "I've heard troubling news. The human princess is… unwell."
Damier rose slowly from his chair, his towering presence casting a shadow over the King. "She will recover," he said with quiet certainty. Turning toward the door, he added without looking back, "She will be mine."
The guards swung the heavy doors open, and Damier stepped into the corridor once more. His expression was unreadable, but his thoughts churned like a storm.
Come back to me, Virelda, he thought, his pace unbroken. You're not going anywhere. Whether you like it or not… I will always find my way to you.
The corridor stretched endlessly ahead, lined with tall windows that let in the pale light of the fading afternoon. He barely noticed the soft shuffle of approaching footsteps until a voice, sharp yet trembling with restrained emotion, broke the silence.
"May I know," Queen Elira began, her tone laced with both anger and sorrow, "what my daughter has done to deserve being thrown into the dungeon… my prince?"
Damier stopped, his head turning slightly toward her. Her face was pale, her emerald eyes glistening—not from weakness, but from fury and desperation.
For a long moment, he simply regarded her. His features were as unreadable as stone, his gaze holding no flicker of guilt or hesitation. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm—too calm.
"That depends, Your Majesty," he said, stepping closer until the space between them was tense with unspoken threat. "On whether you are asking as a queen… or as a mother."