The first light of dawn crept through the shattered windows of the ruined chapel, painting the broken stone in pale gray. Dust hung in the air like ash, stirred only by the faintest breath of wind. The silence was oppressive, the kind that pressed against the ears until even the smallest sound seemed too loud.
Elira stirred where she had slumped against the wall, her body stiff, her hand aching from where Lucan had held it through the night. The memory of his grip lingered — crushing, unyielding, trembling with a desperation she had never thought him capable of. She flexed her fingers, half-expecting to see bruises already forming.
Her gaze drifted to him.
Lucan stood near the altar, clad in a dark suit of armor that caught the weak light in dull, cold gleams. The plates were scarred from battle, edges nicked and worn, yet they only made him look more unyielding. A heavy cloak draped from his shoulders, its hem torn and stained, whispering against the stone floor as he moved.
The man who had whispered her name in desperation hours ago was gone. In his place stood the cold, merciless king once more.
Elira's breath caught in her throat. She had seen him vulnerable, if only for a heartbeat. She had felt the tremor in his hand, the shudder of a man barely holding himself together. But now, looking at him, she wondered if she had imagined it. His presence was iron again, his silence heavy with authority.
"You'll stay close to me," Lucan said without turning. His voice was flat, unyielding, carrying the weight of command.
Elira blinked, startled by the suddenness of his words. "What?"
Lucan turned, his eyes sharp and unreadable. "Don't make me repeat myself. You'll remain at my side. Not because I trust you. Not because I want you there. But because you're useful. And until I get my answer—what kind of power you possess—you stay alive. I still believe you're the Saintess from the prophecy."
The word struck her like a slap. Useful. That was all she was to him. Not a person. Not even a prisoner. Just a tool.
Her jaw tightened. "Saintess...? And what if I refuse?"
Lucan's gaze darkened. He stepped closer, the weight of his presence pressing down on her like a blade at her throat. "Then you'll learn how quickly usefulness can expire."
Elira's breath caught, but her glare didn't waver. She wanted to spit back, to remind him that without her touch, he would've been consumed by the beast. But the words stuck in her throat. He already knew. That was the only reason she was still breathing.
Lucan studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he turned away, dismissing her as though the conversation was beneath him. "Gather yourself. We leave within the hour."
Elira stared at his back, her fists clenched at her sides. Her gaze lingered on him a moment longer before she pushed herself to her feet, legs unsteady but determined. The chapel around them was a ruin — shattered pews, broken stone, the remnants of a place once meant for prayer and light. Now it was nothing but a tomb of silence.
She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering despite the warmth of dawn. Her eyes lingered on Lucan's back. He moved with purpose, adjusting his sword belt, checking the edge of his blade. There was no hesitation in him, no sign of the man who had clung to her hand like a drowning man to a rope.
It unsettled her.
Had she imagined it? Had his desperation been nothing more than a trick, a moment of weakness he would never allow again?
Her fingers brushed her palm, remembering the heat of his grip, the tremor in his hand. No. It had been real. She was certain of it.
But if it was real, then what did it mean?
Her power — whatever it was — had silenced the beast inside him. She didn't understand it, couldn't explain it, but she had seen the change with her own eyes. The monster had recoiled at her touch.
And Lucan knew it.
That was why he wouldn't let her go.
When the hour passed, Lucan strode to the chapel doors. He pushed them open with a single motion, the heavy wood groaning on rusted hinges. The morning light spilled in, harsh and unforgiving.
"Move," he said.
Elira hesitated. "Where are we going?"
Lucan glanced back at her, his eyes cold. "You don't need to know. You only need to follow."
Her stomach twisted. Every instinct screamed at her to resist, to demand answers, to claw back some measure of control. But she bit her tongue. She wasn't a fool. She had seen what he was capable of.
For now, survival meant obedience.
She stepped forward, her footsteps echoing in the hollow chapel. Lucan's gaze flicked briefly to her ankle before he turned away, leading the way into the morning.
Elira glanced down at herself, testing her weight on the injured limb. The wound had closed, the worst of it healed, though a dull ache still lingered. It wasn't enough to stop her. She could bear it.
The world outside was quiet, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth and ash. The forest stretched around them, dark and tangled, the trees whispering in the wind.
Lucan walked ahead, his stride long and purposeful. Elira followed, her eyes darting to the shadows between the trees. Every sound made her flinch — the snap of a twig, the rustle of leaves.
She wanted to ask where they were going, what he intended, but she held her tongue. His silence was warning enough. And in Elira's thought praying there's no more beasts lunging at them. She's done with her trauma.
Hours passed. The sun climbed higher, burning away the mist. The forest thinned, giving way to rolling hills and scattered ruins. Elira's legs ached, her throat dry, her stomach grumbled, but she didn't complain. She knew better.
Lucan didn't slow. He moved like a man who knew exactly where he was going, his focus unshakable.
Finally, when the sun was high, he stopped.
Elira nearly stumbled into him, catching herself at the last moment. She looked up, startled, and saw what had made him pause.
In the distance, smoke rose from a cluster of buildings — a village, small and isolated.
Lucan's eyes narrowed. "We'll stop there."
Elira hesitated. "Why?"
He turned his gaze on her, sharp and cold. "Because I said so."
Elira rolled her eyes as Lucan turned and strode forward. "That attitude…" she muttered, trailing behind him.
The village was quiet when they entered, the air thick with the scent of smoke and cooking fires. People paused in their tasks to watch them pass, their gazes lingering on Lucan's sword — and on the dark aura that seemed to cling to him like a second cloak.
Elira felt their fear pressing down on her like a weight. She wanted to speak, to tell them she wasn't with him, that she was his prisoner. But the words stuck in her throat. One glance at Lucan's face told her what would happen if she tried.
They reached an inn at the edge of the village — a crooked building with faded shutters and a sagging roof. The innkeeper, a nervous man with trembling hands, bowed low as Lucan stepped inside.
"Room," Lucan said, his voice flat and cold.
The innkeeper nodded quickly, fumbling with a ring of keys. "Y-yes, my lord. At once."
Elira followed in silence, her stomach twisting. She hated the way people bowed to him, the way they shrank back in fear. But she understood it. She had felt that same fear herself.
The innkeeper led them up a narrow staircase, the wood creaking beneath their boots. At the door, Lucan handed him a gleaming coin — not out of kindness, but as a dismissal.
When they reached the room, Lucan stepped inside first and closed the door behind them. The silence was heavy, broken only by the faint creak of the floorboards and the distant murmur of village life beyond the window.
Elira stood near the window, her arms crossed, her eyes fixed on him. "Why are you keeping me here?" she demanded.
Lucan turned, his gaze sharp. "Because you're useful."
Her hands clenched into fists. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you'll get."
Elira's chest tightened. "You think you can just order me around like some servant? I'm not yours to command."
Lucan stepped closer, his presence filling the room. "You silenced it," he said, his voice low, dangerous. "Don't pretend you don't know what that means."
Elira's breath caught. "I don't know what it means. I don't even know what I did."
"Then you'll learn," Lucan said. His eyes burned with something she couldn't name — not desperation, not gratitude, but calculation. "And until you do, you'll stay at my side."
Elira's heart pounded. She wanted to scream at him, to fight, to run. But she knew it was useless. He was stronger, faster, more dangerous than anything she had ever faced.
Still, she refused to stay silent.
"Is this how you treat everyone?" she snapped, her voice sharp. "Like they're disposable? Like they're just tools to be dragged around and threatened?"
Lucan didn't flinch. He stepped closer, his armor casting long shadows across the floor, his gaze as cold as steel.
"This is restraint," he said flatly. "You're getting special treatment."
Elira scoffed. "Special? You call this special?"
He leaned in slightly, his voice low and unyielding. "I treat most people worse."
The words hung in the air like a blade between them.
Elira stared at him, her jaw clenched, her fists tight at her sides. She didn't know whether to be insulted or terrified. Maybe both.
Lucan turned away, dismissing her with the same indifference he gave everyone else. "Get some rest."
-------------
The sun had barely crested the spires of Velmoria when the first whispers began.
By midmorning, the royal palace was thick with tension. Courtiers moved in hushed clusters, their silks rustling like dry leaves, eyes flicking toward the throne room doors as if expecting the king to stride through them at any moment. But the throne remained empty. The crimson banner above it hung still, untouched by breeze or breath.
In the council chamber, the air was colder.
Lord Halric of Veymar, the High Chancellor, stood at the head of the long obsidian table, his gloved hands resting lightly on the polished surface. He wore no expression, only the faintest curve of his lips — not quite a smile, but close enough to unsettle.
"The king has not yet returned," he said, voice smooth as oil. "His last known location was Silver Lake. That was three days ago."
"Is it true His Majesty has gone missing?" asked Baron Garrick Hollowmere, Keeper of the Seal. He managed royal decrees, succession records, and legal manipulation with quiet precision.
"Yes," Halric replied. "That is what Sir Alden reported in his letter. He has been searching for His Majesty ever since."
A murmur rippled through the gathered lords and ministers. Some exchanged glances. Others looked to the empty chair at the far end of the table — the one reserved for the monarch.
Lady Virelle of Caerwyn, sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued, leaned forward. As Head of Intelligence and Espionage, she commanded the kingdom's spies, informants, and blackmail networks. "You're certain he's missing? Not merely delayed?"
Halric's eyes flicked to her. "I am certain. Sir Alden's letter is clear — His Majesty encountered the Saintess and was preparing to execute her when a whirlpool erupted from the lake and swallowed them both. Since then, no trace has been found."
Gasps echoed. A few nobles paled. One of the younger ministers made the sign of the old gods beneath the table.
"This is a matter we must address immediately," said Lord Verran of Stormhollow, his voice low. As Master of Coin — and one of Halric's quiet allies — he controlled the treasury, trade routes, and economic policy, much of it corrupted under Lucan's nose.
"I know," Halric replied. "That is why I called this council. If word spreads that the throne lies empty, that our king is missing, the outer cities will stir. Some may even rebel."
He let the silence stretch, savoring the weight of it.
Then he turned, walking slowly toward the tall windows that overlooked the capital. Beyond the palace walls, the city stirred — merchants shouting in the markets, bells tolling from the cathedral, guards marching in formation. Life continued, unaware that the crown sat empty.
Or perhaps not unaware. Rumors traveled faster than ravens. The people were waiting for confirmation. And many would welcome it.
Halric clasped his hands behind his back. "The people will panic if we do not act swiftly. The throne cannot remain vacant."
Lady Sareth, High Magister and overseer of arcane affairs, narrowed her eyes. She was another of Halric's allies, though her loyalty was bound more to power than principle. "You speak as if you already have a solution."
"I do," Halric said, turning back to face them. "We form a Regency Council. Until His Majesty is found — or confirmed dead — the realm must be governed."
"And who would lead this council?" asked Baron Garrick.
Halric's smile was thin. "Someone with experience. With stability. Someone the people already trust…"
You mean your son, Virelle thought, but she held her tongue.
Halric let the silence hang before delivering the final blow.
"It will be my son, Deylan."