Christopher had barely finished his sentence before turning to pack. His fingers moved with quiet precision, folding clothes, tucking away scrolls, and slipping hidden blades into their sheaths. But this trip—this one wasn't just for gathering intelligence or buying time. It was strategic. Calculated. A way to keep his elder brother distracted, too entangled in imperial affairs to go sniffing around for him.
He was still organizing his thoughts, planning three steps ahead, when a deep voice called out behind him.
"Prince," Braska said, his tone steady but serious. "I've been meaning to ask you something."
Christopher turned to face the clan leader. His expression was unreadable—but in the depths of his eyes, a flicker of contempt passed like a shadow. Who the hell do you think you are to question me? the look seemed to ask.
But he didn't voice it. Not aloud. He didn't need to anymore. The Stone no longer bound him. He could lie, manipulate, mislead—freely.
Braska, interpreting the silence as permission, pressed on.
"At the Sacred Site… you said you couldn't grant the title of Empress or Queen to our girl. I wanted to know—was that because of some prejudice against our tribe? The kind of twisted beliefs your empire holds against us? Or… is it because you're angry with me? For not believing in you at first?" His eyes narrowed. "Whatever the reason, I ask only this—don't humiliate the girl after the marriage."
Braska's voice tightened, sharpened with conviction. "This union—it matters to us. It was the foundation for our trust in you. So I'm warning you now… don't torment her. Physically, she can handle pain. But mentally?" He scoffed, as if the thought disgusted him. "Our girls aren't trained to survive the twisted games you nobles play."
Christopher's expression darkened. His jaw tensed, lips pressed into a line as he stared at Braska. Did they really think he was that kind of man? That he'd take pleasure in tormenting a girl for sport?
Then again, he couldn't blame them.
The original Christopher's reputation had been nothing short of terrifying. A sadist. A monster. A man who smiled while spilling blood. It wasn't entirely irrational.
He sighed, tired—not physically, but from the weight of assumptions, of being caught in someone else's skin. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he finally responded.
"You don't have to worry. I haven't stooped that low… yet." His voice was quiet, edged with an emotion too subtle to name. "And I don't plan on making her suffer. Not unless you betray me."
He paused, letting that implication sink in.
"As I said before, I can't make her Empress or Queen. Not because of some grudge. Not because of your tribe's origins. But because…" He hesitated. Then, quietly, "I have someone else."
Braska blinked.
"I promised her that title. That place by my side. But just because your girl won't bear the title doesn't mean she'll be neglected. I won't allow anyone to mistreat her. As far as the Empire is concerned, she will be treated like any other Queen or Empress. The title—it's just words. Nothing more."
Braska had been bracing for a lie, or a diversion. But the moment Christopher said I have someone else, something changed.
His eyes.
Those eyes that once seemed hollow, dangerous—now sparkled with something unmistakably human. Love.
The prince—no, the man—rumored to be a psycho, a monster, someone capable of massacring clans without flinching… had someone he cherished.
And it startled Braska more than he cared to admit.
When I first met him, Braska thought, he seemed too plain. Too normal. I assumed the rumors were slander—fabricated by enemies to ruin his chances at the throne. He didn't look like a madman. So I took a gamble. Thought it'd be smart to align with him.
He remembered the vice leader's warning. "Don't stand in his way."
Braska hadn't understood it then. Not until that day at the Sacred Site—when Christopher spoke of annihilating the entire clan in return for betrayal. And the Stone had said nothing.
That's when I got scared. Maybe the rumors weren't lies after all. Maybe this man truly had something dark inside him.
So Braska had waited. Observed. And now, here he was—hearing about love from the very man he'd once suspected would break their daughter into pieces for fun.
But what if it wasn't madness? Braska mused. What if it was grief? Loyalty? Pain?
Still, he had to be sure.
Our clan is matriarchal. Men, no matter how strong, always stand behind a woman. If he came from a society where patriarchy ruled... would he truly respect her? Or resent her? Would he twist her mind until she broke?
And if any of that were true—then no deal, no alliance, no promise would've been worth it.
He would've broken the pact himself.
Because in the Bihu tribe, blood always comes first.