Lucarion stood at the balcony of his fortress, overlooking a valley of black glass and crimson fire. The night stretched endless before him — deep, ancient, and cruelly still. His hand rested on the stone railing, his eyes glowing faintly with ember light, reflecting the storm that brewed beneath his calm expression.
Behind him, a servant knelt, trembling. "My lord," he said quietly, "we have searched the mortal archives, the covens, your daughter is not here right now."
Lucarion's fingers tightened against the cold stone. For a long moment, there was no sound — only the low rumble of the molten rivers below. Then, he spoke — softly, dangerously. "And yet," he murmured, "you hesitate. There's more."
The servant swallowed. "Y-yes, my lord. She is married."
The air shifted. The flames far below guttered, dimming. The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut through flesh.
Lucarion turned slowly, his gaze burning gold-red. "Married?"
"Yes, my lord."
"To who?"
