Lucien did not answer her question that night.
He stood there, watching her with those unreadable dark eyes, as if calculating how much truth she could survive.
"What haven't you told me?" she had asked.
The silence that followed was heavier than any confession.
"You are safe here," he finally said.
Again.
Safe.
She was beginning to hate that word.
"From what?" she pressed.
His jaw tightened slightly. "From those who wish to use you."
Use.
The word lingered in the air.
Before she could demand more, the fire in the fireplace flickered violently. The shadows in the room stretched unnaturally across the walls.
Lucien's gaze shifted past her shoulder.
Cold.
Alert.
"Stay inside your room tonight," he said quietly.
"What? Why—"
But he was already gone.
Not walking.
Not running.
Gone.
The balcony curtains whipped wildly though there was no wind.
Her chest tightened.
Something was wrong.
That night, the dream returned.
But this time…
It wasn't distant.
It wasn't blurry.
It was real.
She stood barefoot in a massive hall of black marble. Flames lined the walls, rising high but not burning. The air was thick with power — suffocating, ancient, divine and damned all at once.
At the far end stood a throne.
Larger than before.
Carved from obsidian and bone.
And someone was sitting on it.
She stepped forward slowly.
The sound of her footsteps echoed endlessly.
The figure on the throne leaned forward.
A crown of black fire rested upon his head.
His face was hidden in shadow.
But she felt his eyes on her.
"Pure blood," the voice echoed through the hall, layered and powerful.
Her heart trembled.
"I can smell Heaven in you."
Her mark began to burn.
Pain seared across her chest as golden light flickered beneath her skin.
The figure rose slowly from the throne.
The ground cracked beneath his steps.
"You belong to no realm," he continued. "And yet… both will bleed for you."
Her breathing became shallow.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
A deep chuckle shook the hall.
"I am what your little protector fears."
The flames roared higher.
Behind him, massive wings unfolded — not feathered, not angelic.
Made of smoke and fire.
And then she saw his face.
Sharp.
Cruel.
Beautiful in a terrifying way.
Eyes like molten lava.
"You may call me King."
Her knees nearly buckled.
The Demon King.
Suddenly, chains shot from the floor, wrapping around her wrists and ankles. The throne room darkened. The flames turned red.
"You will kneel here soon," he said calmly. "Your blood will open gates that have been sealed for millennia."
She struggled against the chains.
"Lucien will never let you!" she screamed.
The King smiled slowly.
"My son does not control destiny."
Son.
Her heart stopped.
The ground split open beneath her—
And she fell.
She woke up gasping.
Her room was shaking.
Not metaphorically.
Actually shaking.
The chandelier swayed violently. The silver flames in the fireplace turned black.
The mark on her chest glowed brighter than ever before.
Pain shot through her veins.
Outside her door, footsteps rushed.
Voices shouted.
"Elara!" Mira's voice cried.
The door burst open.
Her two handmaids rushed in — but they froze mid-step.
Because the room was no longer just a room.
Dark cracks spread across the walls like spiderwebs.
The air felt thick.
Oppressive.
And in the center of the room, shadows were gathering.
Forming.
She stumbled off the bed.
"I didn't do anything!" she cried.
The shadows twisted together, rising taller and taller until a familiar, powerful presence filled the chamber.
Not the King.
But something close.
Lucien appeared in a flash of darkness, stepping directly between her and the forming shadow.
His expression was no longer calm.
It was furious.
"You dare enter my domain?" he growled.
The shadow formed into a tall silhouette — faceless, but carrying immense authority.
A voice echoed through it.
"You cannot hide her forever."
Lucien's eyes ignited.
Not red.
Not gold.
But something deeper.
Ancient hellfire.
"She is under my protection," he said, his voice shaking the walls.
A pause.
Then the shadow spoke again.
"You grow attached."
The accusation hung heavy in the air.
Lucien did not deny it.
The shadow laughed darkly.
"Father will not tolerate weakness."
Father.
Her stomach twisted.
The shadow dissolved slowly.
But not before whispering—
"The altar is almost ready."
The room returned to normal.
The cracks vanished.
The chandelier steadied.
Elara and Mira were shaking.
Lucien turned toward her.
For the first time since she met him…
She saw something raw in his expression.
Not power.
Not control.
Fear.
"You saw him," Lucien said quietly.
It wasn't a question.
She nodded slowly.
"He said… he's your father."
Silence.
The truth finally stood between them.
Lucien exhaled slowly.
"Yes."
Her voice trembled.
"You're not just a protector, are you?"
His jaw tightened.
"No."
The air seemed to still.
She swallowed.
"Then what are you?"
His gaze locked onto hers.
And this time…
He did not hide it.
"I am the Prince of Hell."