The wheels of the carriage rumbled steadily, each turn carrying Ariel farther from the capital and deeper into the vast lands of the Drakin Duchy. The late sun draped the sky in bands of gold and crimson, stretching shadows across endless fields and thick forests.
Ariel leaned toward the small window, her breath fogging the glass as she gazed at the horizon. The colors of the countryside were vivid, more alive than the gray marbled walls of the imperial palace she had known all her life. Her chest rose with a small, involuntary breath of awe.
So wide… so green… it feels like another world.
But when her eyes drifted back inside the carriage, that fleeting wonder collapsed into unease.
Across from her sat Maximilian.
His broad frame filled the seat with effortless dominance. The fading light struck the sharp lines of his face, painting him in shadows that made his already severe expression look almost carved from stone. His gloved hands rested on his knees, and though he had not said a word in some time, the air seemed heavy with his presence.
Ariel's fingers twisted nervously in her lap. She dared to break the silence.
"Umm… how much longer will it take before we reach the manor?"
Her voice was barely above a whisper, and yet Maximilian's eyes lifted instantly, pinning her.
"It will take a full day," he replied, his tone deep and unyielding. "We may have entered my duchy, but the manor lies farther inland. Tonight, we stay in the village."
Ariel nodded quickly, her gaze dropping to her hands. His voice was not cruel, yet the weight behind each word pressed against her ribs.
The carriage slowed. From outside came the shout of a soldier:
"Sir Duke, we have reached the hotel."
The door swung open, and the world tilted. Maximilian stepped out first. His boots struck the cobblestone with a sound that made the nearby villagers straighten in respect—and fear. He turned and extended his hand toward her.
Ariel froze.
For an instant, she saw not the blood-drenched figure who had entered the wedding hall, but a man… tall, strong, his hand steady, waiting for her.
Her heart skipped. He's… actually so—
She slapped her cheeks lightly, flustered. Idiot! Don't even think it. He's dangerous. Too dangerous.
"Do you want to come out," Maximilian's voice cut through her spiraling thoughts, "or stay inside?"
Her throat tightened. She placed her hand in his. His grip was firm but not crushing, and as he guided her down, the whispers began.
"Ohh, so that's our duchess."
"She's beautiful."
"Yes, but the duke… he's even more handsome. They look perfect together."
"Hah! Don't be fooled. Didn't you hear the rumors? She's infamous in the capital. Slept with men for favors, they say."
"A perfect match for a bloodthirsty beast."
The words sliced through Ariel's chest like hidden blades. Her lips parted to protest, but her breath caught.
Maximilian's head turned. His eyes, sharp and glacial, landed on the soldier who had spoken too loudly.
"Do you have a death wish?" His voice was cold steel. "Get back to work. All of you."
The group scattered instantly, stumbling over themselves to flee. Even the bravest villagers averted their eyes.
Ariel's pulse thundered. He had silenced them—yet his ferocity only confirmed the very image they feared.
"…Could I be alone for a while?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
He called to a servant without hesitation. "Show her to her room."
---
The chamber was quiet. Its stone walls, though clean, carried none of the luxury Ariel had grown used to. The bed was firm, the candles dim. She sank down onto the mattress, the weight of whispers and rumors pressing against her.
Her shoulders shook.
I'm not that kind of woman. None of it was my fault. It's because of him…
Her tears blurred the world. She pressed her face into the pillow, muffling the sobs.
Rafael. Crown Prince Rafael. He ruined me. He spread his lies until the nobles sneered when I entered a hall. He made me into a harlot in their eyes, while I—
Her body trembled. Exhaustion dragged her under, pulling her into sleep with wet lashes and clenched fists.
The door creaked open later, soft enough not to wake her. Maximilian stood in the doorway, the candlelight brushing over his stern face.
He saw her curled form, her tear-streaked cheeks. His jaw tightened. For a long moment, he did nothing. Then, quietly, he stepped closer, pulled a blanket from the chair, and draped it gently across her shoulders.
His hand lingered in the air above her, as though tempted to brush away the wetness at her cheek. Instead, he drew back.
"Don't fall in love with me," he murmured, his voice so low it barely stirred the air. "And don't get attached."
He turned and slipped from the room, closing the door with a muted click.
---
Far away, the imperial palace basked in torchlight.
Prince Growel sat by the window of his chambers, the moonlight soft against his worn features. His wheelchair creaked faintly as he shifted, gazing into the gardens below.
Max… I hope she brings you peace. You've carried blood long enough.
A gentle knock came at the door.
"Your Highness, may I enter?"
Growel smiled faintly. "Yes, Rumi. Come in."
The caretaker stepped inside, her tray balanced gracefully. Her presence was a balm—warm, familiar, almost too close to dangerous.
"It is time for your medicine," she said softly. "And after, I will give you a massage. The stiffness seemed worse yesterday."
Growel obeyed, swallowing the bitter tonic. When her hands touched his arms, warm oil seeping into his skin, a shiver chased down his spine.
Her fingers moved with practiced gentleness, yet each brush across his chest, each accidental linger, sent heat rushing through him.
Their eyes met once, just once. Her hand faltered, grazing his cheek.
Both froze.
Rumi's face flushed crimson. She pulled back abruptly, bowing her head. "Forgive me, Your Highness—I should prepare the linens." She fled quickly, her steps echoing down the hall.
Growel chuckled softly, alone again. He gripped the wheels of his chair, then—slowly, with effort—pushed himself to his feet. His legs shook, but he stood.
"Rumi…" he whispered to the empty room. "One day, I'll tell you everything. And when I prove I'm not useless… you'll see me."
---
Elsewhere in the palace, Rafael reclined against silk cushions, a goblet of wine in his hand.
Maidens stood in silence before him, their heads lowered. His lips curved into a smile that did not touch his eyes.
"Closer," he commanded.
One girl obeyed, trembling as she poured more wine into his cup. His hand shot out, gripping her wrist. She gasped. He laughed, dragging her toward him until her knees buckled.
"See? That's better. Tremble for me."
The other maids kept their gazes on the floor. Fear was survival.
Rafael released the girl with a shove. She stumbled back, clutching her wrist. His laughter rang through the chamber—cold, unfeeling.
"In this palace," he declared, sipping his wine, "I am god. And gods do not ask for devotion. They take it."
The maids bowed deeper, their tears hidden in silence.
---
Yet while the prince reveled, the servants' hall carried whispers of another kind.
At long wooden tables, weary workers shared bowls of stew and bread. Their voices were hushed, but the truth slipped out in fragments.
"His Highness called for more girls again tonight," one maid muttered.
"Shh! Do you want your tongue cut out?" another hissed.
The words faded as the overseer passed. Laughter returned, forced, fragile.
And above, the nobles schemed and indulged, never hearing the prayers whispered by the countless unseen hands that kept their empire alive.
---
Back in the village inn, Ariel stirred in her sleep. The blanket that wasn't hers cocooned her in warmth. For the first time in months, her lips curved faintly in rest.
Outside her door, a soldier kept watch. And down the hall, the man everyone called a monster sat alone, eyes closed, his sword across his lap—not resting, but guarding.
The night deepened.
Two strangers, bound by chains of marriage, lay beneath the same roof—both haunted, both scarred, and both unaware that this was only the fragile beginning.