The great hall had emptied—one by one, nobles and soldiers had risen, bowed, and faded into the dark, their laughter swallowed by the marble walls.
Only Tenebrarum remained.
Aurelia did not move. Her hands lay still upon her lap, fingers pressed so tightly together they ached. Her spine remained straight, almost rigid, but the rest of her—her breath, her gaze, the small twitch of muscle along her jaw—trembled beneath the weight of the silence.
She felt him behind her.
Watching.
Not merely present, but deliberate, like a blade unsheathed but not yet swung.
Her hair spilt down her shoulders, thick and uncombed, veiling her face as though it alone could shield her from the god seated just steps away.
Footsteps whispered across the polished floor—two servants approached, their heads bowed, fingers reaching for the silver goblets. But before they could lift a plate, they saw him. Tenebrarum.
They stopped. As if an invisible tide had risen before them.
One of the girls lowered her eyes. The other froze mid-step, then slowly, wordlessly, the two of them retreated, their arms empty, their faces pale. Even the air around them seemed to recoil.
Aurelia swallowed hard. The silence between them pulsed like a second heartbeat.
Then his voice broke it.
"You think I would not notice."
The sound was low and measured, yet it struck her spine like the crack of a whip.
She did not look at him. Her eyes remained fixed on the untouched bread at her place. Her voice, when it emerged, was thin.
"Notice what?"
A pause. Long enough for her to regret asking.
"Kaelen."
The name dropped like poison into water.
"His eyes," Tenebrarum said, rising slowly from his seat, "did not leave you. Not once."
Aurelia turned—too quickly. Her chair scraped the floor. The hem of her gown twisted around her ankles.
"Tenebrarum—"
He moved.
The heel of his boot struck the marble as he stepped forward, fast, violent. The table shuddered. One hand slammed down so violently that a silver dish clattered to the edge. A crystal goblet shattered beside her.
She flinched. Glass flew, one sharp piece grazing the line of her cheek, drawing blood. She reached for it—but stopped herself. Any movement might provoke him further.
He stood above her now, his breath steady, too steady. His fingers curled at his sides, restrained but ready to strike—not her, perhaps, but something. Anything. The world, if it displeased him.
Her voice broke again. Soft. Desperate.
"I didn't do anything..."
Her eyes did not rise to meet his. Not out of obedience. But because she no longer knew what she was to him.
A guest? A servant? A sacrifice?
He had brought her here—to this cold palace carved from shadow and gold. He had dressed her in silk, sat her beside him like an ornament, fed her before beasts who salivated behind courtly smiles. And now he glared—because Kaelen had looked?
She shifted in her seat, her hands trembling as they tightened around the folds of her dress.
"Did I do something wrong?"
No reply. But his eyes—those black, inhuman eyes—dragged over her like chains. Slowly, he leaned forward, so that his shadow fell completely across her.
"You ask such useless questions," he said, voice now calm, almost soft. "I should have known. All humans are fools... They only taste good when eaten."
The words struck her harder than any slap.
She stared at him then—not as a prisoner looks at her jailer, but as prey looks at the beast that has lost all interest in pretending it is civilised.
And she knew.
He had never truly wanted her here.
Not as a guest.
Not even as a slave.
He wanted her to suffer.
To watch her break.
And if she tasted sweet when shattered, that would be enough.
She lowered her head again.
She did not move—only sat still, spine taut, while her mind traced the shape of death like a map.
Perhaps if she offered herself gently to the edge, it might take her kindly.
Perhaps death, unlike him, would show mercy.
"Leave!"
The command tore through the air like a lash. It didn't bounce off the walls—it split them, echoing straight into her chest.
Her body jerked, but she didn't flee.
Instead, with a silence more violent than screams, her hand slid down to the shattered remains of the goblet at her feet.
Her fingers curled around a jagged sliver—long, vicious, still wet with wine. Or maybe blood.
She didn't hesitate.
The porcelain tore through her skin as she shoved it into her own palm, deeper, until her knuckles turned white from the force. Blood spilt in quick, hot bursts over her lap, soaking into the fabric he had so proudly draped her in.
Her breathing quickened. Not with fear. With resolve.
If she could not be free—if this palace would devour her piece by piece—then she would carve her own exit, brutal and irreversible.
She looked up, eyes glassy but unflinching.
"Will this please you more?" she whispered, voice hoarse, as blood dripped from her wrist to the floor in slow, deliberate taps.
"You are insane."
His voice was cold—sharper than the glass she'd buried in her palm. But there was something else beneath it now. Something darker.
He strode forward, the soles of his boots grinding over shattered crystal. The noise echoed like bones snapping under weight.
Without gentleness, he seized her wrist. Blood smeared against his fingers, hot and defiant. He pried the shard from her palm, tossed it aside, and it clattered across the marble like a discarded threat.
But then—he froze.
His gaze lifted, drawn upward like a man dragged into a storm tide.
Her eyes.
Those fractured purple oceans—wild, haunted, furious—burned beneath the veil of pain. There was no fear in them now. Only the madness of a girl who no longer cared if she lived or died.
And it ruined him.
Something inside him cracked.
Lust flooded through him like poison, thick and sudden. Not the lust of affection. The lust for power. Of hunger. Of a need to own the one thing that dared defy him, dared bleed without permission.
His grip tightened.
"You want to die?" he murmured, his voice low, dangerous.
"Then you'll do it in my arms. Not alone."
His mouth was inches from hers now, and she could feel the heat radiating off him—consuming, merciless, even through the polished metal of his mask.
His breath dragged against her skin like smoke over embers, scorched and slow. Her spine locked.
But she didn't flinch.
She stared back, shaking, pale, wounded—yet still unbroken.
---
To be continued...