Author's Note
A Dark Royal Romance
🔞 18+ only.
This work is intended for adult readers and contains dark romantic themes.
⚠️ This is a work of dark romance set in a fictional kingdom.
It includes extreme power imbalance, psychological tension, and morally gray characters.
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"Fine," he growls, low and lethal. "Stay in your bed."
"But understand this," he adds over his shoulder, voice sharp as steel, "the wedding is in six days. Once the Southern Dukes leave, I'm done with games. Done with stolen touches. If you refuse me again—if you play loyal to the Princess—I won't ask. I'll take you here, and make certain the Queen, the court, and even you know exactly who owns you. You are Property, Liora. And I am a Crown that is tired of being hungry."
He releases her with a shove. Cold, final. Heavy with promise.
Liora swallows, her chest tight, her pulse a frantic drum. Six days. Six days until a fate she cannot escape.
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Chapter 1 – The Laws of Valcaryn
The gates of Valcaryn loom like jagged teeth against the gray dawn, swallowing the world beyond them. Liora's heart hammers as she steps onto the marble courtyard, each footfall echoing like a verdict. Here, nothing is casual. Nothing is free.
Even names are meaningless. Servants are renamed; slaves lose theirs entirely. Only the Crown retains true identity. Liora knows that every syllable, every gesture can be scrutinized and punished. To speak without permission is to court death; to look where she shouldn't is rebellion.
The palace breathes with a cruel, mechanical rhythm. Meals, movement, sleep—everything obeys Crown Time. Hunger can be punished. Lateness is treason.
Urgency is ranked; personal needs are irrelevant. Doors open only by command; some never open at all. Certain wings forbid mirrors or windows; seeing too much is a risk.
Even clothing is a law, dictated by rank, fabric, and color. Liora tugs at the hem of her plain dress, knowing a single wrong thread can mark her. Silence is survival.
Conversations cease the moment the prince enters a room. Feet freeze. Eyes lower. Bowing is required until he chooses otherwise. Even the queen bows to his presence.
The enslaved live under even harsher dictates. Once claimed, they are Crown Property, no longer human in law. Harming them matters only if it harms the King.
They cannot refuse orders, speak without being addressed, or leave their assigned spaces. Proximity to anyone other than their owner or designated guards is forbidden.
Marks of ownership burn a quiet truth into flesh, symbols that cannot be erased without death. Replacement is common; loss carries no mourning. Every command from the Crown overrides all else.
The palace itself seems alive with these rules. Some rooms are said not to exist. Every step might be watched; every whisper overheard. Movement, voice, even visible emotion is restricted in many halls.
To waste food, to refuse rationed portions, or to misstep in timing is not an accident; it is a crime. Memory belongs to the Crown alone: nothing recorded, written, or spoken can escape.
At night, the palace tightens further. Lights, doors, summons—all controlled.
The Prince and the Crown move freely, while all others obey or vanish. Positions can be replaced instantly. Absence means nothing.
Liora draws shallow breaths as she approaches the throne room, where the Prince is said to appear at dawn.
Eye contact is forbidden unless he allows it. Touch is unthinkable. Even a fleeting glance in the wrong direction can ignite ruin.
Yet the forbidden draws her in, as always, like moths to fire.
The carved doors open silently, and she glimpses him. The Prince. His presence bends the air itself, demanding stillness, obedience, silence.
Every law—the Law of Gaze, Law of Touch, Law of Proximity, Law of Stillness—weaves a cage around her. One misstep could cost her life, her freedom, even her identity.
And yet, beneath the fear, beneath the rigid rules, a spark stirs. Desire. Defiance. Dangerous and fatal if discovered. Liora draws in a quiet breath.
In Valcaryn, every law is a chain. Every glance is a gamble. Every heartbeat is a rebellion.
The Prince waits.
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© 2026 Zora Grey. All rights reserved. This story is an original work. Unauthorized reproduction or reposting is prohibited.