Chapter 216 – Divine Interruption
The doors of Apollo's temple were not designed to be opened by force.
They were layered in divine seals, carved from starlit gold mined in realms without names. Etched with protections against titans, spirits, even minor gods.
They shattered in half a second.
The explosion wasn't loud — not truly.
It was precise.
Targeted.
A sound like reality tearing at the seams.
The great ceremonial arch split down the middle, and the heavy doors blew inward with such force they cracked the surrounding pillars. Guests gasped, some recoiling, others rising in alarm. The music died instantly, the lyres falling silent with a final discordant twang.
And through the haze of golden dust, a single figure walked in.
No armor.
No weapons.
No divine light burning from his shoulders.
Just a black shirt.
Dark pants.
Two fists.
Two feet.
And eyes so still they froze the air around them.
Alex.
He walked forward without hurry, each step deliberate — like gravity had changed to suit him. The air curled around his presence, as if not quite sure how to move. The divine pressure of the hall bent around his body like it recognized him but didn't understand why.
He stopped halfway down the shattered aisle.
Vira stood across from him — dressed in sacred wedding robes, hair crowned in a wreath she hadn't chosen. Her face didn't betray emotion.
But her eyes burned.
Apollo, radiant in his divine regalia, turned from the altar — surprise flickering across his face for the first time in centuries.
He narrowed his eyes.
"You," he said, voice low, cutting. "You're the one who—"
"Doesn't matter," Alex said.
His voice wasn't loud.
But it cracked across the hall like thunder wrapped in stillness.
"She's not yours."
Apollo straightened. "This is a divine rite. You have no jurisdiction here. No claim."
Alex's eyes didn't blink.
"I have her memory."
Vira's breath caught.
Apollo stepped forward, golden light coalescing around his shoulders. "You think you can walk into my realm with nothing but your mortal hands and speak of claims?"
Alex didn't move.
"I didn't come here to speak."
He lifted one hand slowly.
Flexed his fingers once.
"And I don't need more than these."
The entire hall tensed.
Dozens of divine guests began to stir, spells half-formed behind folded hands. Tension filled the sacred air like a storm waiting for the first drop.
Vira finally stepped forward, silent.
She said nothing.
But the look in her eyes—
For the first time, it wasn't pride.
It wasn't fury.
It was something close to awe.
Apollo's golden eyes narrowed as he studied the young man standing at the center of the shattered hall. He scanned him not with awe — but with offense. This intruder had come uninvited, unarmored, and unafraid… to steal his bride?
His bride.
His trophy.
His possession.
Apollo's voice turned smooth again, though a venomous coil hid beneath. "I see. So this is it."
Alex raised a brow, still silent.
"A former suitor? A secret fiancé, perhaps?" Apollo said, eyes flicking toward Vira. "Or maybe you're just the latest infatuation of a prideful girl pretending she still has a choice."
Vira said nothing.
But the light in her eyes flared — not fear.
Rage.
Apollo smiled faintly, and the light around him began to ripple. "Either way… I think it's time this ends."
He lifted one hand.
A bow of golden radiance formed instantly — solid light drawn from the sun itself, curved like a crescent eclipse.
Without hesitation, he nocked a burning arrow and loosed it in one perfect motion — faster than mortal eyes could track.
The air cracked with celestial force.
The arrow split the divine silence—
And stopped.
In Alex's hand.
He had raised it without flinching, catching the projectile between his fingers like it was nothing more than a tossed coin. The flames licked around his palm, then dimmed — as if they recognized something in him far older than the gods.
Alex's eyes never moved.
He turned his wrist—
And threw it back.
The arrow shrieked through the chamber and buried itself in Apollo's shoulder, spinning him sideways with a flash of broken pride.
The god staggered, golden ichor trailing down his arm.
The entire crowd froze.
Even time seemed to pause.
Apollo stared at the wound. Then at Alex.
And then he smiled.
The kind of smile a god wore before a massacre.
"You dare—"
He dropped the bow and charged.
No grace. No divine posing.
Just fury.
Raw, radiant, vengeful fury.
Alex didn't move until the last second.
Then he exhaled.
His own aura, so carefully suppressed, expanded for a brief breath — just enough to match Apollo's level. No more. He wasn't here to dominate.
He was here to protect.
With one step, he pivoted his foot and sidestepped the charge.
Apollo's palm missed his jaw by less than an inch.
Alex countered with a short elbow strike to the ribs — not enhanced, not powered, just delivered with perfect timing.
Apollo winced and swung again.
Alex ducked, turned, and swept his legs out with one clean movement — dropping the god to one knee.
The entire hall watched in silence.
Alex didn't gloat.
Didn't speak.
Didn't strike again.
He simply raised his fists into a loose, open stance.
No armor.
No weapon.
No theatrics.
Just absolute control.
Chapter 217 – The Unspoken Name
The golden marble of the wedding hall was in ruins.
Cracks spidered across the floor. Fractures ran through the columns like lightning frozen in stone. Fragments of celestial glass rained gently from above, still glowing faintly from the divine magic that had once woven this chamber into perfection.
Now, it was just a broken shrine to a bruised god.
Apollo staggered back, breath uneven. His once-pristine robe was torn and stained with streaks of glowing ichor. His right eye was beginning to darken. His lip split from the last hook Alex had landed.
Alex stood just meters away.
Unscathed.
Still unarmored.
Still not serious.
Just watching.
Apollo snarled — the fury of a humiliated deity boiling past reason. "You think you can humiliate me in my own hall?" he hissed. "You think I'll let you walk away?"
He lifted both hands.
The sun bent.
A fragment of solar core — collapsed, compressed, burning with nuclear fury — formed between his palms. The heat wasn't just radiant. It erased things. The edges of space around the star began to warp. Even the distant gods watching through scrying mirrors began murmuring in alarm.
This was no longer ritual.
This was attempted annihilation.
And Alex—
Simply moved.
He didn't teleport. He didn't vanish.
He stepped.
Light blurred.
And in that instant, he was beside Apollo.
A flick of the wrist.
A snap of the arm.
His knuckles struck Apollo's wrist joint with precise force — not to destroy, but to break the angle.
The miniature sun jolted, spun—
And flickered out like a candle pinched shut.
Apollo recoiled, holding his arm, stunned.
Alex's eyes — calm and black — never even flickered.
The silence was deafening.
The crowd, what little remained, had already begun to flee during the chaos. Only a few gods remained in the shadows and halls beyond — silent observers cloaked in magic and caution.
Then came the voices.
"He didn't use magic," one whispered.
"He caught a divine arrow," murmured another.
"That was a star," someone said. "And he just—"
"Shut it," snapped Hermes, appearing with a sigh beside Athena.
Athena folded her arms, eyes narrowed. "That man is not a mortal."
"No," Hermes agreed. "And I think he wants us to think he is."
A few gods smirked behind veils and illusions. They didn't hate Apollo — but they certainly didn't mind watching him bleed. The smug sun god had gathered enough enemies through centuries of ego.
"Should we step in?" asked Dionysus lazily.
Ares shook his head. "Why? He's getting exactly what he deserves."
"But who is he?" asked Hera, stepping onto the scene with regal control.
No one had an answer.
Not yet.
But deep in the back of the hall, cloaked in shadow, Skuld watched through a single crack in the world — her smile wide and gleaming like mischief waiting to bloom.
Two hours.
That was how long the fight had lasted.
Not because the opponents were evenly matched.
But because Alex refused to end it.
Apollo's face was almost unrecognizable.
Bruises swelled beneath his golden eyes. One was now sealed shut. His lip had split a second time, and there was a sharp crack in his jaw that hadn't been there before. Blood — divine and golden — trickled from his nose, his cheek, his shoulder. His once-shining skin was blotched with discoloration.
He gasped for air, knees shaking, struggling just to remain standing.
And across from him, still in the same plain black clothes…
Alex hadn't even broken a sweat.
Not a single tear in his shirt.
Not a scratch on his skin.
Not even a shift in his breathing pattern.
His hands were loosely at his sides — relaxed. Composed. Unhurried.
His movements had been surgical: dodge, counter, step back. Every strike was a message. Every dodge was a lesson.
You're not my equal.
You never were.
You only believed you were because no one corrected you.
In the upper balconies of the damaged wedding hall, several of the remaining Olympian gods had made themselves comfortable.
Aphrodite lounged with a bowl of grapes, lazily popping one in her mouth as she observed the chaos below with amusement. "I give it another fifteen minutes," she murmured. "Then he goes down."
Hermes appeared next to her, conjuring popcorn. "He's lasting longer than I expected."
"Because the mortal's being nice," Ares said bluntly, arms crossed. "If he wanted Apollo dead, he'd have punched once. Maybe twice."
"Should we interfere?" Athena asked, though her voice lacked urgency.
Hera, watching from a floating throne of peacock-feather sigils, responded with cool finality: "No one's dying. The man isn't killing him — just unmaking his ego."
A few other gods nearby chuckled.
Bets were being whispered between old gods and new spirits. Some wagered on when Apollo would fall unconscious. Others debated how many ribs had already been cracked.
What was clear to everyone—
Alex wasn't here for vengeance.
If he were, Apollo would already be a crater in the ground.
No.
Alex was teaching him something Apollo had never learned.
What it feels like to lose.
Ten more minutes passed.
And then—
Apollo collapsed.
It wasn't dramatic.
There was no final scream, no golden explosion of defiance.
He simply fell.
Face first.
His divine body hit the cracked marble with a dull, weighty thud. The wedding wreath on his head rolled away in silence, lost beneath shattered columns.
A long moment followed.
And then, from the balcony above—
"HAH!"
Hermes shot up from his seat, fist pumping the air. "Two hours and ten minutes! EXACTLY!"
He spun toward Dionysus, who groaned theatrically while tossing a glittering pouch of divine drachma into Hermes's outstretched hand.
"Pay up, everyone! Don't be shy. That's thirty-three wagers settled — and I accept interest!"
Hera sighed.
Ares grunted and muttered something about rigged luck.
Even Aphrodite, elegant and unimpressed, floated over to drop a bracelet of starlight into Hermes's pile with narrowed eyes. "This isn't over."
"Oh, but it is," Hermes beamed. "And I will buy so many shoes."
Athena handed him a sealed scroll without expression. "You're insufferable."
"I try."
The gods dispersed slowly, grumbling. None wanted to explain what had just happened. None were eager to defend Apollo — not now. The golden boy of Olympus had been thoroughly, elegantly, publicly humbled.
And the man responsible still hadn't spoken another word.
Alex turned away from Apollo's unconscious form and looked toward Vira.
But before either of them could speak—
Far above, behind the folds of time and fate, someone laughed.
Just once.
Soft and amused.
A laughter that tangled destiny like a knot in silk.
Skuld.
Watching.
Waiting.
Already planning her next move.
Chapter 218 – No Need to Bow
The hall was quiet now.
The gods had left or drifted back into the higher realms. The scent of scorched air still lingered, and golden dust swirled through the broken shafts of light spilling from the shattered dome above. Apollo lay unconscious at the far end of the marble aisle, still glowing faintly with the residue of his pride.
And Alex stood alone in the center.
Still calm.
Still silent.
Vira stepped forward slowly, her wedding silks fluttering in the breeze left behind by the battle. The floral crown had fallen from her head during the fight, but she hadn't picked it up. Her golden eyes were steady — but not cold.
For the first time in a long time, she looked at someone without trying to be above them.
"Why did you come?" she asked.
Alex turned toward her, eyes unreadable.
"I remembered."
A pause.
Vira inhaled softly.
"You remembered… me."
He nodded.
"I remembered the games. The way you looked at me — like I wasn't supposed to win. Like you'd never met someone who didn't care about your title."
Vira's voice was quiet. "I hadn't."
Alex stepped closer.
"But that wasn't why I came."
She blinked. "It wasn't?"
He looked at her then — truly looked.
"I didn't come to fight a god. I didn't come to ruin a ceremony. I came because—"
He paused.
And then said simply,
"You looked at me like I was someone worth fighting again."
Vira didn't answer right away.
The silence between them wasn't awkward.
It was familiar.
He took another step.
The air shifted between them — no longer charged with battle, no longer cold with pride.
And she said, almost whispering, "You didn't have to come. I would have found a way."
"I know," he replied. "But you didn't have to do it alone."
Something in her expression cracked.
Just a little.
Not enough for anyone else to see.
Only him.
And that was enough.
She looked down, brushing her ruined sleeve. "I must look ridiculous."
"You always looked like that," he said.
She shot him a sharp glare.
And then — just for a moment — she smiled.
Tightly.
Almost invisible.
But real.
She took a deep breath, and her voice was quieter now.
"You saved me."
Alex shook his head. "You never needed saving."
"Then what did I need?"
He stepped past her.
Only stopped long enough to say:
"Someone to remember your name even when you didn't say it out loud."
Then he kept walking.
Vira stood still, watching his back.
Her hands trembled slightly — not from fear.
But from the sudden realization that the man she once tried to humble...
…had just undone her, gently.
Without ever needing to win.
The wind changed.
Soft at first — a breeze that threaded through the broken temple hall like a whisper.
Then stronger.
Alex paused near the edge of the ruined columns.
He didn't look back, but he felt them before they stepped through the divine fold in space: two immense presences, veiled in power older than cities, older than most stars.
Freyja, whose beauty was a weapon sharpened by wisdom.
And Queen Ao, cloaked in the same ivy-bound majesty that Vira wore as armor.
They said nothing at first.
They didn't need to.
Vira stood still at the center of the chamber, her silks torn and her eyes unreadable. But when she turned toward the two women who raised her, who ruled her realm and her bloodline — she didn't bow.
She just looked.
And they understood.
Alex exhaled once, deeply.
Then turned away.
No farewell.
No declaration.
Just the quiet step of someone who had come to do one thing — and done it.
He disappeared down the steps of the temple, into the golden horizon that framed Olympus.
Leaving Vira behind.
But not forgotten.
Never again.
The silver gates of Alfheim opened without sound as the dimensional veil parted. No horns. No procession. No servants.
Just three women walking slowly into the eternal twilight of their homeland.
Freyja walked ahead, regal and composed, though a knowing glimmer lit her eyes — not sharp, not divine, just… amused.
Queen Ao followed beside her daughter, one arm resting lightly along Vira's back. Her touch was soft, not urging, not guiding. Just present. Just there.
Vira walked between them like someone returning from a long, dreamless journey. Not wounded. Not triumphant.
Just quiet.
The path led upward through branches of crystal-bloom trees that hummed with ancestral memory. The runes that watched over the Sunleaf Court stirred faintly as she passed — not in alarm, but in welcome. As if the forest sensed that something old in her had changed.
She didn't notice.
Her eyes were forward.
But her thoughts were elsewhere.
Still lingering in a marble temple of shattered gold.
Still hearing the voice that had once asked nothing of her — yet gave everything when she needed it most.
As they reached the quiet terrace outside the palace, Ao finally spoke — softly, as if not to startle the moment.
"You still don't think he's the one in the black armor, do you?"
Freyja smiled faintly. "No. That man fought like a ghost. Like a myth."
Ao nodded. "And this boy… he fought like someone who'd already lost her once."
There was a pause between them.
Then the Queen said it — not to Freyja, not even directly to her daughter, but aloud to the air between women who understood such things.
"My daughter has fallen in love."
Vira didn't speak.
Didn't deny it.
But her fingers clenched at the silk over her heart.
And that was answer enough.
Freyja chuckled — quiet, smooth, teasing.
"Perhaps it's time you accepted a son-in-law."
Ao exhaled through her nose. "He's too calm. I don't trust calm men."
"He destroyed half a temple with his fists."
"…Still too calm."
The two ancient women exchanged a look.
Not one of politics.
But one of mothers.
And Vira, standing at the edge of the terrace, said nothing — only stared at the horizon where sky met illusion, wondering if he'd still remember her tomorrow.
Meanwhile, Vira sat alone, eyes unfocused, the wind stirring the loose strands of her hair.
She had returned.
To her people.
To her land.
To everything she had ever ruled without question.
And it felt... smaller.
She let her hand rest against the wooden bench beside her, fingers brushing a curved vine. It responded — warm and alive, twining around her wrist in silent affection.
But even that didn't reach the feeling in her chest.
That warmth she had felt when he walked into the wedding hall…
It was not pride.
Not victory.
Not the relief of a rescue.
It had been something gentler.
Deeper.
And terrifying.
She remembered how it started.
How she had looked at that human boy — six years old, ordinary, beneath her — and challenged him with cruel rules and colder words.
"If you lose, I'll cut off your finger."
She'd meant it.
Because it was supposed to be easy.
She remembered watching him win.
Again.
And again.
And again.
And every time he did, something in her shook — not out of anger, but confusion. Not just pride wounded… but identity questioned.
She'd told herself it was rage. That she hated losing.
But now, all these years later—
Sitting here, with his voice still echoing in her heart, saying:
"I remembered."
She realized what that ache truly was.
It wasn't fury.
It wasn't humiliation.
It was longing.
Longing to be seen.
Not as a princess.
Not as a bloodline.
Not as a prize.
But as someone worth remembering.
And when he forgot her—
That coldness in her chest had been grief.
Raw, simple grief.
The kind she'd never let herself feel.
Until now.
Her eyes lifted to the stars beyond Alfheim's branches.
And for the first time in her long, silver-shadowed life, Vira Sunleaf whispered not a vow of vengeance…
…but a hope.
"Don't forget me again."
She stood alone on her private balcony that night, bathed in the silver glow of Alfheim's twin moons. The trees sang softly below — songs of ancestry and pride, of legacy and blood. The lullabies of her people. Of her kind.
But none of it reached her.
Not tonight.
Not after him.
Vira Sunleaf, third princess of the High Elves, known for her impossible standards and cutting tongue, once made spirit children cry with a glance. Servants feared her footsteps. Even other royals tread lightly around her moods. She had always known power. She had always worn arrogance like silk. Cruelty came naturally — not out of malice, but expectation.
She had never doubted that she was above humans.
Above all of them.
They were short-lived things — fragile, noisy, reckless.
Inferior.
Until him.
Until Alex.
She had looked into those black eyes and seen nothing she could name — only the shape of something dangerous, something unchangeable.
And for the first time in her long life… she wasn't disgusted by it.
She was drawn to it.
He didn't tremble beneath her titles.
He didn't care for her name.
He didn't flinch when she threatened to cut off his fingers.
He played.
He won.
And he remembered her.
Her heart ached now — not in pain, but in conflict. The pride of her race screamed that this was beneath her. That no elf — no princess — should feel what she felt.
But her chest stayed warm.
No matter how she tried to smother it.
He was human.
And yet, somehow…
He was the only one she'd ever looked at and thought:
"I want to be seen by you."
She closed her eyes.
And for once — for just a moment — she wasn't a princess.
She was just a girl, feeling love for the very race she was raised to pity.
But Alex wasn't part of that world.
He never was.
He was his own.
And now… he was hers.
Even if he didn't know it yet.
Chapter 219 – The Letter from the Queen
The world was quiet again.
Alex had returned home long before the sun rose. He hadn't said anything to anyone. He hadn't needed to.
He washed his hands. Changed his shirt. Reheated some rice and miso soup. The simple acts grounded him more than any victory could.
Outside, the wind carried faint whispers of the world's confusion — rumors of a mysterious man who shattered a wedding, fought a god, and disappeared. But inside, everything was still.
Peaceful.
Normal.
Until the doorbell rang.
Alex blinked once.
Then sighed.
He padded to the entrance barefoot, pulled open the front door—
And paused.
The figure standing before him wasn't human. Not quite.
Slender. Impossibly tall. Dressed in layered robes that shimmered with woven glyphs of ivy and crystal, the envoy of Alfheim looked down at him with ageless, almond-shaped eyes. Her features were sharp, ethereal — impossibly perfect, and completely unreadable.
She bowed. Elegantly. Formally.
"Alex Elwood," she said, her voice like chimes in starlight. "I come bearing the words of Queen Ao, Matriarch of the Sunleaf Court, Sovereign of Alfheim."
Alex didn't flinch. "Okay."
She extended a scroll sealed in emerald wax.
He took it.
The envoy bowed once more. "The Queen awaits your answer."
Then, without waiting for one, she turned and stepped into a fold of space that vanished like silk on wind.
Alex stood at the doorway in silence.
Then closed the door.
Back in the living room, he cracked the seal and unrolled the scroll.
It was written in Old Elvish, but the spell on the ink translated as he read.
"To the mortal who believes himself worthy of my daughter—
I do not recognize you.
I do not trust you.
And I do not care how many gods you knock down with your fists.
If you wish to pursue my daughter,
You will do so properly.
In Alfheim.
Before my eyes.
Before the ancient spirits.
Only then will I consider your presence tolerable in her life.
Fail—
And forget her forever."
It was signed in a flourish of vinework and a drop of emerald blood.
Alex stared at the letter for a long moment.
Then set it down beside his tea.
From the faint shimmer on his right hand, a symbol pulsed once — gold and blue, soft and warm.
Ciel emerged, folding into her full body beside him on the sofa. Her long silver-blue hair shimmered faintly, and her eyes sparkled with quiet amusement.
"Well," she said, smiling, "it sounds like a challenge."
Alex raised an eyebrow.
Ciel leaned forward, resting her chin in one hand. "You know… I wouldn't mind her joining us."
"You don't even like elves," he replied.
"I don't like most elves," she corrected. "But she's different. She already carries your presence inside her. Even if she doesn't understand it yet."
Alex didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
From the other side of the room, Morgan emerged in her silent ripple of shadow and light, folding into a seated position near the window. Her long silver-white hair flowed like moonlight behind her. Her expression was blank — not cold, just distant.
"She's arrogant," Morgan said flatly. "And annoying."
"Mm," Ciel hummed. "So are you."
Morgan didn't rise to the bait. "Do what you want."
Alex looked toward her.
Morgan met his gaze without blinking.
"If it makes you feel something, go," she said simply. "If not… burn the letter."
He stared down at the scroll again.
The wax still faintly glowed.
Vira's mother had written it expecting defiance.
But she didn't understand something important.
Alex didn't need permission.
And he never played games unless they mattered.
He stood up.
"I'll go," he said quietly.
Neither of them asked why.
Because they already knew.
Chapter 220 – What Should Not Be Questioned
The twilight canopy of Alfheim shimmered above the Sunleaf Court — always dusk, always perfect. Silver-leafed branches arched over crystal pathways, and the glow of rune-touched blossoms painted everything in a soft eternal glow. It was a realm untouched by time, untouched by error.
But it could not keep out whispers.
Vira walked the central promenade of the upper court, flanked by two honor guards in living armor. Her posture was flawless. Her robes shimmered with royal glyphs. Her golden eyes looked straight ahead.
But her ears were burning.
"They say she let him fight for her—"
"—a human, no less—"
"—defeated Apollo, they say. But that can't be possible, right? He's mortal."
"Even if he did, he's still just—"
The last voice didn't finish.
Because Vira stopped walking.
The two guards paused as well.
Her head turned, slowly.
Two elven scholars froze mid-conversation behind a spiraling column of windglass. One swallowed. The other looked down, pretending to adjust a sleeve.
They had made the mistake of whispering too close.
Vira said nothing.
But her hand twitched once — a subtle, violent impulse she barely managed to bury.
She wanted to cut out their tongues.
No — she wanted to drag them by their perfect hair into the garden sanctum and flay the arrogance from their throats. Slowly. Elegantly.
Because they hadn't just insulted a man.
They had insulted him.
The only person who had ever dared stand beside her without kneeling.
The only one she could remember who had ever turned his back on her — not out of disrespect, but because he knew she'd follow.
She resumed walking without a word, leaving the scholars behind.
But the heat stayed in her chest.
Her mind circled back to that moment again — the ruined temple, the silence before the storm. The way he walked through golden dust like it meant nothing.
No armor.
No spells.
Just fists.
And when he looked at her…
It wasn't possession.
It wasn't admiration.
It was recognition.
Even after all those years.
Even after he'd forgotten.
He remembered her.
He chose to.
And for that alone, Vira would burn Alfheim to the roots before she let any noble call him lesser.
Vira reached the upper garden without realizing she had walked there. The wind shifted through the sky-draped vines, and the stone beneath her feet glowed faintly, alive with ancestral enchantment. No one else was present.
She needed it that way.
She moved to the edge of the terrace, where the sky shimmered like riverglass and the stars above Alfheim bent in graceful spirals. Far below, her court stirred — silent, proper, polished — but she heard none of it now.
Her hands rested lightly on the railing.
The fire from earlier still burned in her chest… but behind it, beneath it, there was something else.
Something gentler.
Something terrifying.
She had no word for it.
Not one that felt right.
Pride had always been the shape of her heart — sharp and tall, like the citadel towers she was born to command.
But now, that shape no longer held.
Because of him.
That human.
That quiet, black-eyed boy who once let her threaten him with a smile and responded with a move she never saw coming. Again and again. Until she stopped seeing him as prey… and started wondering why he didn't fear her.
She thought it was anger.
She thought it was obsession.
But none of those things had ever left her breathless.
None of them had made her feel—
"Seen."
She whispered it aloud. A word stolen from memory.
When he looked at her — not at her power, not at her title, not at her blood — he looked as if she were someone.
Not something.
Not a conquest.
Not a jewel for display.
Just someone who mattered enough to be remembered.
And when he had said her name, in that quiet ruined hall…
Her heart had bloomed in a way no spell in Alfheim could explain.
"I think I love him," she admitted.
Her voice was small. Not weak — just honest.
She had never spoken those words before. Never even considered they could be hers.
Love?
For a human?
No.
Not for a human.
For Alex.
There was no race. No realm. No station.
There was only him.
And now… she wanted more.
Not to win.
Not to dominate.
But to be close.
To be seen by him, again and again, until her pride no longer needed to speak — because he would already know.