The temple trembled in shadow. Candles flickered, their thin flames quivering against the stone like nervous whispers. Rifa pressed her newborn to her chest, knuckles white, lips trembling.
"Goddess…" she gasped. "Protect her…"
The statue's eyes flared. White fire licked the air, burning shadows into molten shapes. Rifa threw up her hands, shielding her face.
She saw.
A girl. Ariel. A woman draped in white, standing in a circle of fire. Across from her, a man in blackened armor, his sword dripping, every edge gleaming like a promise of death. Maximilliam.
Flames reflected off his eyes. The world would have called him a monster. But Ariel stepped forward. Her hand lifted—not trembling. When their fingers touched, the blood seemed to shrink back, fading like mist. He was a man, broken and raw.
Rifa's knees buckled. Her tears hit the stone with a sound like rain on metal.
---
Years later.
The palace gardens breathed under the twilight. Ariel stood alone, shoulders tense, eyes fixed on nothing and everything. Her fingers twitched at her side, nails biting into palms.
A memory pressed against her ribs. She was younger, trapped in a corridor swallowed by shadow. Blades flashed. Death arched toward her with a metallic scream.
Then a shadow fell over the killers. Steel moved faster than thought. Bodies crumpled, one by one, before she could see a face. A hand reached toward her, and she ran, heart hammering, never looking back.
The man's name remained a secret.
Until the day she had to marry him.
Maximilliam. Duke. Murderer. Stranger.
His rare smiles cut through her hatred, sharp as broken glass. And somehow, beneath the edges of fear, her chest ached.
From the empire's depths, a figure emerged. Rifael. Eyes burning like coals, hands stretched toward her as if to seize her soul.
"Saintess… or bastard," he hissed. "She is mine."
---
The night came.
Fire climbed the palace walls. Smoke clawed at the sky. Steel screamed, slicing through air. Ariel stumbled, pressed close to Maximilliam as assassins poured from every shadow. His sword swung like a storm—each strike a red arc, each body a testament to his wrath.
She ducked, rolled, pressed against the cold stone, feeling the heat of his blade pass just inches from her hair. A scream rang out behind her, swallowed by fire and metal.
Through the chaos, she tracked him. Every movement, every swing, every breath: a protective rhythm. She didn't need to understand—her body knew she was safe because he moved around her, a storm she couldn't enter, a wall she could lean against.
A cold laugh cut through the flames. Rifael.
"Fall, beast. Fall, so I may have her!"
Maximilliam faltered. Blood ran down his armor in rivulets, soaking into the leather beneath. He staggered, lungs heaving, every inch of him screaming. Yet he did not bend. Not once did he let her shoulder bear the danger.
The last assassin collapsed. And then he did.
Ariel caught him just before he hit the stone. His weight burned through her arms. Blood soaked her gown, warm and sticky. His lips brushed her ear.
"Don't… cry. Live."
Then he slipped from her grasp.
The night froze. Ariel's scream tore across the gardens, up into the darkened heavens. From the shadows, Rifael's laughter lingered, curling into every corner. A promise.
This was only the beginning.