The throne room was silent, yet every shadow seemed to carry whispers of accusation. Scrolls and reports lay scattered across Valerian's desk, but the words blurred beneath the storm in his mind. Council members murmured of law broken, of boundaries crossed, of shadows trespassed — yet he could hear nothing beyond the faint, insistent pulse threading through the air: Shyla.
He clenched his fists, the marble beneath knuckles creaking in protest. The kingdom, with all its iron rules and ancient decrees, demanded obedience. The law of his lineage, older than memory, dictated restraint. And yet, every heartbeat tore at him, reminding him of one truth he could not ignore: she existed, and she was slipping further from his grasp.
Reports of unrest, whispers of suspicion from the Council, threats from enemies who had always lurked in the corners of his empire — they all fell silent to the storm in his chest. Shadows coiled around him, alive to his desire, bending toward him in silent obedience. They had always been his allies, yet even they seemed reluctant tonight, wary of the toll their passage exacted. He would endure it anyway.
The transition through the shadows was agony and ecstasy intertwined. Each step twisted his muscles, strained his ribs, lanced his senses — yet each heartbeat closer to her made it bearable. By the time he emerged in her room, the soft glow of city lights painted the floor in delicate stripes. Shyla sat awake, hair falling in waves across her shoulders, eyes wide and attentive, listening to a voice that belonged only to her.
Valerian's chest constricted. Every subtle flicker of her expression, every sigh, every hesitant movement, struck him with unbearable precision. She spoke softly, almost reverently, to the disembodied voice that guided her, the voice that was gentle, protective, unwavering.
"She will be moving to New York soon," Leo said, calm and deliberate, each word a soft anchor in the storm of her confusion. "It is the safest path for you, for what you are, for what you must become."
Shyla's fingers trembled over the pendant at her throat. "And… Nickolas? Who is he?"
Valerian froze. Even here, in shadow, the words landed like a blade. He had known this day would come, but hearing it so clearly — hearing Leo claim her for another — ignited a fire in his chest that nearly consumed him.
Leo's voice softened further, like water over stone, measured yet full of gentle authority. "He is your destined mate, Shyla. The one bound to you through blood and fate. In our world, he will be your husband."
Her breath caught, a sharp intake that Valerian felt echoing as though through his own ribs. Shadows curled tighter around him, thrumming with his anger, his longing, his helpless love. She looked down at her hands, pale against the pendant, whispering, "Destined… mate…"
He wanted to step forward. To touch her. To crush the distance that separated them. To claim even a fragment of her warmth for himself. But he could not. Leo could not see or hear him, yet the fragile rules of the world, the laws older than memory, restrained him. Still, the ache that surged through him demanded a solution. He could not wait.
He knelt at the edge of the room, muscles coiled, crimson eyes following every motion she made. Every subtle flick of her hair, every breath, every pause — he memorized it all. He almost stepped into the light, almost claimed her presence for himself, but the thought of breaking the fragile secrecy held him back.
"Before you go," he whispered, voice threading through shadows, felt but not heard, "before you step into their world… you will see me. You will remember me. Every choice, every heartbeat that made you… mine… will not be lost."
Shyla shivered, eyes flicking toward the corner as though sensing something beyond perception. A warmth brushed her skin, fleeting and intangible, and she pressed the pendant closer to her chest. Whatever it was, she could not name it — only that someone had been there, watching, caring, lingering.
Valerian's fists clenched, the shadows around him curling like armor. He would not wait. He could not. Fate, law, and duty had pushed him to the edge, and only action could preserve what he carried for her — the bond, the memory, the fragment of love that refused to fade.
He stepped back, retreating into the veil between worlds, letting the shadows carry him away. Every step burned, every heartbeat a reminder of what he had risked — and what he would risk again. The night held its breath as his vow lingered, tangible only to the air and the shadows:
"Before you leave… you will see me. You will remember. Always."
The faintest echo of warmth remained where he had stood. Shyla pressed the pendant tighter, sensing — though she could not name it — that something, someone, had been there. Something unseen, yet undeniably hers.
And in the quiet corners of his empire, Valerian's vow remained ironclad, an unbroken thread of desire and determination, laying the foundation for what must come: the moment he could no longer linger unseen, the moment he would cross the line of law and shadow, and finally claim her attention, her awareness, and her heart.