The day they came for Aya, the sky did not cry.
It was clear --painfully clear , a cold blue stretched too wide, too empty. The kind of sky that made you feel small beneath it. The kind of sky that did not care.
People watched from behind doors and shutters as the king's soldiers walked her through the village, their black cloaks dragging like shadows soaked in midnight. No one spoke. No one tried to stop them. Fear had already taken their voices.
Aya's hands were not bound in rope.
They were tied with white silk.
Because she was not a prisoner.
She was an offering.
Her pulse beat quietly beneath her skin, but her steps did not falter. If this was the day she would die , she would not go shaking.
The road to the Black Palace felt endless. Tall pines pressed in on both sides, their branches whispering overhead like old ghosts.
And then — the palace appeared.
A fortress carved from obsidian stone, rising like the ribs of some ancient beast. The gates towered high enough to swallow the sky. Torches burned with blue flames, casting shadows that seemed to breathe.
Aya inhaled — slow.
Her heart did not stop.
But something in it shifted.
She stepped inside.
And the world changed.
---
The throne room was silent.
Not peaceful silence.
No — this silence hummed.
It watched.
It waited.
Tall stone columns lined the hall, carved with symbols older than the kingdom itself. The air tasted faintly of cold iron and roses cut before they bloomed.
Her breath trembled once.
Then she saw him.
The Thorn King.
He did not look like the stories.
No jagged fangs.
No monstrous form.
His beauty was the kind that hurt to look at.
Sharp jaw.
Black hair that fell in soft, dark waves.
Lips that looked carved from quiet suffering.
And his eyes—
Not red.
Not dead.
Silver.
Cold, quiet silver — like moonlight on steel.
Like something that had seen too much and survived anyway.
He lifted his gaze to her.
Slow.
Deliberate.
As if time itself bowed to him.
Aya's knees threatened to weaken, but she held herself straight.
She would not kneel.
Not yet.
Not for him.
Not for anyone.
The guards stepped back — leaving her alone in the center of the hall, beneath the weight of those silver eyes.
The King did not speak.
He only watched her — and the room felt smaller, closer, as if drawn tight around the two of them.
Finally, his voice came.
Low.
Smooth.
Dangerously calm.
"Raise your head."
Aya hadn't realized she'd lowered it.
She lifted her chin — and for the first time, their eyes met fully.
Something invisible tightened.
Not between their hands.
Not between their bodies.
Between their souls.
Lysan's expression did not shift. But when he spoke again, his voice carried something ancient — something aching.
"You are not afraid."
Aya swallowed. Her voice was quiet — but steady.
"I am," she replied.
"I just refuse to show it."
A breath of silence followed.
Deep.
Sharp.
Alive.
The guards stiffened, waiting for punishment. Waiting for a blow. Waiting for blood.
Instead —
The King exhaled.
Not a laugh.
Not a smile.
Just—
A breath that sounded like he had forgotten what it meant to feel anything at all.
And then:
"Then," he said softly,
"you are already mine."
Aya's heart didn't stop.
It fell.
Down.
Deep.
Into something she did not have a name for yet.
A love that burned.
A love that bruised.
A love that would destroy her , and still, she would choose it.
The palace was watching.
Fate was listening.
And destiny —
had already written her name.