The Dreadsword Prince
The first rule of surviving Noctyrrh, Lumi decided, was learning how not to stare.
She walked beside Blake Crowe through the upper halls of the Obsidian Court, her pace matched carefully to his. Servants bowed too deeply. Nobles looked away too quickly. Even the shadows seemed to recoil from the sword at his side, slithering back into corners as they passed.
The Dreadsword was awake.
Lumi felt it as a low, persistent hum beneath her skin, like a distant drumbeat synced to Blake's pulse. It was not lying—cursed objects rarely did—but it was hungry. The truth pressed against her ribs, heavy and warning.
It wants blood, the truth whispered.
She kept her face composed.
At twenty-six, Blake wore his reputation as effortlessly as his crownless authority. He did not speak as they walked, but his awareness filled the space between them. Lumi sensed calculation, restraint, and something quieter beneath it all—exhaustion.
They entered a long gallery lined with banners depicting the Crowe lineage. Kings and queens stared down from embroidered silk, their eyes darkened with shadow-thread. Each face carried the same sharp bone structure, the same severe mouth.
And the same emptiness.
"None of them lived past forty," Lumi said before she could stop herself.
Pain flared behind her eyes.
Blake halted.
Slowly, he turned to face her. "Careful, Truth Bearer."
She pressed her fingers into her palm until the ache grounded her. "I didn't mean to—"
"I know," he interrupted, not unkindly. "The sword makes it difficult for truths to stay buried."
That was… honest. The realization startled her more than his warning.
Blake studied the banners, his expression unreadable. "Every Crowe ruler inherits the blade," he continued. "And the curse that comes with it. We keep Noctyrrh standing by feeding it pieces of ourselves."
"Does it ever stop?" Lumi asked quietly.
"No."
The word landed cleanly. Final. True.
They resumed walking. The court corridor narrowed, forcing proximity. Lumi became acutely aware of Blake's warmth, of the way his presence steadied the truth inside her instead of aggravating it. That, more than anything, unsettled her.
"You don't flinch around me," Blake said suddenly.
"I don't need to," she replied. "You're not lying."
He glanced at her then, sharp interest flashing across his features. "Not even now?"
Lumi hesitated. The truth inside her stirred—but did not burn.
"No," she admitted. "Only… withholding."
A muscle in his jaw tightened. "There's a difference."
"Yes," she said. "And it's killing you."
They stopped before a set of black doors carved with sigils of warding. Blake reached for the handle but paused.
"This is where the court expects us to look convincing," he said. "From this point forward, every movement will be observed."
Lumi met his gaze. "Then tell me what they need to believe."
"That we chose this," Blake said. "That you soften me."
"And do I?"
His eyes darkened—not with shadow, but with something more dangerous. "No," he said. "You remind me what I'm losing."
The truth inside Lumi went utterly still.
Blake opened the doors.
Beyond them waited nobles, whispers, and a throne forged from night. Lumi stepped forward beside him, fully aware now that she was not walking with a monster—but with a man slowly being devoured by the very thing that made him king.
And she was beginning to suspect that loving him would be the most dangerous truth of all.