Elowen awoke to silence. Not the kind she knew from her mortal village where crickets sang, owls called, and the river whispered against stones. This silence was vast, heavy, suffocating—like a hand pressed against her throat.
She sat up on the silken bed, her fingers clutching the sheets that shimmered faintly under the light of the moon spilling through jeweled windows. The palace of the Water God was alive. She could feel it in the walls, hear it in the low hum of the crystal pillars, taste it in the air that carried the salt of the sea and the sweetness of lilies.
A soft knock echoed. Before she could answer, the doors swung open, and two women in flowing aquamarine robes entered. Their faces were beautiful, but unnervingly expressionless.
"You are awake," one said.
"You will be bathed, dressed, and prepared," the other finished, as though they shared a single breath.
Elowen wanted to protest, but the weight of their presence silenced her. She allowed them to lead her into an adjoining chamber where steaming pools reflected the glow of lanterns. The water embraced her skin with warmth, carrying strange energy that tingled through her veins.
"Do all mortals feel this way?" she whispered.
The maids did not answer. They only poured fragrant oils, combed her hair with ivory teeth, and traced runes across her shoulders that shimmered before fading into her flesh.
When they finally dressed her in a gown of pale silver and seafoam, she hardly recognized herself in the mirror. She looked less like a bride and more like an offering.
The throne room was a cavern of majesty and danger. Columns of jade rose like ancient guardians, and a pool of black water shimmered at the center. At its edge sat the Water God.
Damien.
He lounged on his throne with the careless grace of a predator. His long hair, darker than midnight, cascaded around shoulders clothed in robes of shadowy silk. His eyes—icy, endless, cruel—found her the moment she entered.
"So," he drawled, voice low and dangerous, "my bride walks at last."
Elowen bowed, though her body trembled. "My lord…"
"Do not call me lord," he interrupted sharply. His gaze raked over her with a heat that made her knees weaken, though his expression remained carved from marble. "You are mine. Address me as such."
The word stuck in her throat. Mine.
He rose, every movement deliberate, like waves crashing upon rocks. The guards lowered their heads as he descended the steps, each step echoing like thunder.
When he reached her, he lifted her chin with two fingers, forcing her to meet his gaze. Cold. Possessive. Irresistible.
"You reek of fear," he murmured, though his lips nearly brushed hers. "Good. Fear keeps mortals obedient."
Her heart raced. Somewhere inside her, anger burned—anger at being chosen, at being given away like coin in a bargain. Yet another part of her, a shameful part, thrilled under his touch.
"Do not mistake obedience for surrender," she whispered.
A dangerous smirk touched his lips. "Ah. A little flame. I will enjoy breaking you."
That night, she was led to her chambers again, but sleep did not come.
From the shadows, a voice whispered, "Be careful."
Elowen spun, clutching the sheets. A young maid, not one of the twins from before, stood trembling at her door. Her eyes darted to the corners of the room as though afraid the walls themselves would hear.
"The god… he is not what he seems," the girl whispered. "None of us are free here. Not even his brides."
"Brides?" Elowen's heart stopped. "There were others?"
The maid's lips quivered, but before she could answer, the doors burst open. Guards filled the threshold, cold eyes gleaming.
"The Water God summons his bride," one announced.
Elowen's pulse quickened as she rose. Whatever awaited her, she could not run. She was already drowning in his world.
The guards escorted her through a labyrinth of halls, each shimmering as if alive with water that flowed beneath their glass-like floors. The palace itself pulsed like a heart—ancient, watchful, hungry.
At the end of the corridor, massive obsidian doors opened soundlessly. Inside, the chamber glowed with pale blue fire that danced across walls of crystal. A pool lay at the center, black as midnight, its surface so still it seemed a mirror.
And there he was.
Damien.
He stood barefoot by the water, his robe discarded on the floor. The firelight caressed the lines of his body, sculpted with impossible perfection, both beautiful and cruel. He did not turn when she entered, but she felt his awareness coil around her, dragging her closer like a tide.
"You hesitate." His voice rippled, low and mocking. "Did you think my summons optional?"
Elowen's throat tightened. "I did not mean to offend."
"You exist to offend me," Damien said flatly, finally turning to face her. His eyes gleamed like shards of frozen ocean. "It is in your nature. That is why you were chosen."
Her lips parted. "Chosen? I was offered. Sacrificed."
The faintest smile curved his mouth—mockery, sin, something darker. He closed the space between them in two strides, his presence so overwhelming her knees threatened to buckle. His fingers brushed a strand of damp hair from her face, grazing her skin with deliberate slowness.
"You speak as though you are powerless," he whispered. "And yet…" His thumb lingered against her lower lip. "…your body trembles not only from fear."
Heat flushed her cheeks. She wanted to slap his hand away, to deny the truth that even she was ashamed to admit—that the sheer nearness of him stole her breath. Instead, she managed, "You mistake defiance for desire."
Damien's laugh was soft, cruel. "Defiance is desire in disguise. The more you resist, the more you reveal."
He leaned down until his lips hovered a breath from hers. Elowen froze, her heart hammering. Every instinct screamed at her to run, yet her body betrayed her—rooted, aching, craving.
"You belong to me now," he murmured, his breath warm against her skin. "I will break you, little flame. Slowly. Beautifully."
The words sank into her like hooks, terrifying and intoxicating all at once.
Before she could respond, Damien stepped back, the air between them shattering like glass. The cold returned, sharper than before.
"Go," he ordered, voice clipped, indifferent—as though the moment had never happened. "Tomorrow, you will be presented before my court. They will see what I own."
Elowen swallowed hard, bowing her head, though her thoughts were anything but submissive. Something burned inside her chest, fierce and unyielding. If he thought she would shatter easily, he would learn otherwise.
As the guards led her away, she glanced back one last time. Damien stood again by the pool, his reflection rippling in the black water. For an instant, she thought she saw something in his eyes—not cruelty, not mockery, but loneliness so raw it stole her breath.
Then it was gone, replaced by the cold mask of a god.
And Elowen realized her fate was not merely to survive him.
It was to unravel him.