[Lior's POV—The Next Day Valen Mansion]
SLAP—!
The sound cracked through the hall like a whip.
My head snapped to the side before I even felt the pain. The impact rang through my skull, bright and brief, and I staggered half a step—but I did not fall. Falling would have pleased him.
I raised a hand slowly to my cheek, as it stung.
Warmth spread beneath my fingers. When I drew them back, there was blood—thin, red, and already drying where his ring had scraped skin.
A scratch.
'I hope it doesn't scar,' I thought mildly.
That, apparently, was what concerned me most.
Not the humiliation, not the scandal, and not the fact that my lover had kissed my sister in front of half the court—and I, in turn, had kissed a man.
A man.
I had known this was coming.
"You useless brat," my father hissed.
Viscount Edric Valen stood before me, chest heaving with fury, his face dark with something that went far beyond anger. The attendants lined the walls of the hall, eyes lowered, bodies stiff with the practiced stillness of people who had learned when not to exist.
Elara stood at his side, hands folded neatly at her waist, back straight, and lips curved—not quite a smile, but close enough to wound.
Father continued, his voice rising with each word, sharpened by the pleasure of being righteous as he snarled, "I warned you, I explicitly warned you not to disgrace this house."
He stepped closer, jabbing a finger toward my chest.
"And yet—and yet—you chose to make a spectacle of yourself before the entire empire."
I said nothing.
Silence had long ago proven safer.
"Did you imagine I would protect you this time? Did you believe yourself special enough for forgiveness?"
Then he turned abruptly, snatched something from the table beside him, and flung it at my face. The paper struck my chest and slid to the floor.
"Read it," he ordered.
I glanced down., the headline was bold and merciless.
'VISCOUNT EDRIC VALEN'S SECOND SON KISSES A MAN AT IMPERIAL MASQUERADE'
Beneath it—an illustration.
Crude. Hastily drawn.
A caricature of me, mask half-lifted, lips pressed to another man's. The artist had exaggerated my posture, softened my expression, and made me look… wanton.
I tilted my head slightly, 'Oh. They got my eyes wrong—too light, and my jaw isn't that weak.'
Father saw my gaze linger and mistook it for shame.
"Do you understand what you've done? Do you comprehend the depth of this humiliation?" He grabbed my chin, forcing my face upward.
"You have dragged the name Valen through filth. You have turned my house into a joke, a mockery."
His grip tightened.
"Men like you are tolerated only when they know their place," he continued. "And you—" his lip curled, "—have forgotten yours."
Elara spoke then, her voice smooth and measured, each word chosen with care.
"Father," she said gently, "there is no need to exhaust yourself. Lior has always struggled with restraint."
She turned her gaze toward me at last, eyes cool and assessing, "He merely has forgotten his place; we just need to remind him where he belongs."
Father nodded, as if her words were gospel.
Then he seized my arm. His grip was iron, fingers digging into flesh hard enough to bruise. "You will be confined for ten days. One meal a day, bread and water, nothing more. Do you understand?"
I did not struggle.
I did not pull away.
My voice was calm, more polite, "As you wish, Father."
That, more than anything, enraged him. His eyes burned.
"You don't even have the decency to beg," he spat, disgust thick and trembling in his tone.
I lifted my gaze to him, slowly and coldly.
"Would you prefer that I kneel, Father?" I asked quietly.
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut; his face twisted, and he grabbed my hair.
Hard.
Pain exploded across my scalp as he yanked my head back—and then—SLAP —!
This time, I did not remain standing; the blow sent me crashing to the floor.
THUD—!
Stone bit into my shoulder, my ribs, and my cheek. My vision swam, and for a moment, all I could hear was the ringing in my ears and the sound of my own breath—ragged, unwilling.
"I should have killed you the moment you were born," he roared, voice shaking with hatred. "The moment you took your mother's life coming into this world—"
Elara smiled, not wide, not openly, just enough.
Father turned, fury spilling unchecked. "DRAG THIS BASTARD AWAY AND LOCK HIM IN HIS ROOM!"
The knights stepped forward at once. Hands seized me—rough, careless, as though they were handling something already dead. My body ached too much to resist; not that resistance had ever earned me mercy.
As they hauled me upright, Father turned away, wiping his hand against his coat as though disgusted.
"Even touching him feels like a disease," he muttered.
That was the last thing I heard before they dragged me down the corridor. My feet scraped uselessly against the marble. My vision blurred, not from tears—I hadn't cried—but from the dull, spreading pain blooming everywhere at once.
They reached my room, and without ceremony—THUD—!
I was thrown inside like a broken doll; the door slammed shut, and the lock clicked. The knights didn't bow. They didn't linger. One of them scoffed softly, as if even the task had been beneath him.
Their footsteps faded. I lay there on the cold floor for a long moment, staring at the wall, chest rising and falling unevenly.
Slowly, I rolled onto my side, curling inward to protect what little of myself I could.
'Ten days. I thought he would confine me for twenty days with no food.'
***
[Four Nights Later —House Valen]
Confinement, I discovered, had a rhythm.
Sleep. Wake. Eat the single meal slid through the door without a word. Read the books I had hidden beneath loose floorboards—old histories, banned philosophies, anything that reminded me the world was larger than this room.
And forget, or at least try to.
I tried not to think of Caelan's mouth on my sister's. Tried not to remember the way he hadn't even looked at me afterward. Tried not to replay it in the dark when sleep refused to come.
For four nights, the routine held, then—on the fifth day—something broke.
No food came; at first, I assumed it was late. The Valen household had never been kind, but it was predictable in its cruelty. One meal a day. Always at dusk. Always the same tasteless stew and hard bread.
So I waited.
The light shifted beyond the narrow window. Afternoon bled into evening. Shadows stretched long and thin across the stone floor.
Still nothing.
No footsteps, no clink of a tray, and no muttered insults from a servant who resented being assigned to me.
I frowned and rose, moving to the window. That was when I noticed that even the garden below was empty.
No gardeners bent over the hedges, no maids whispering as they passed with laundry baskets. No knights standing at their usual posts, armor catching the last light of day.
Nothing.
The Valen estate—once loud with quiet cruelty—was unnaturally still.
"Where is everyone…?" I murmured.
My voice sounded wrong in the silence.
Usually, by this hour, Elara would be in the garden, sipping her tea beneath the old white tree, laughing softly with her attendants. Knights would patrol the perimeter. Servants would hurry about before nightfall.
But now—it was as if the house had been abandoned.
A low growl broke the silence as my stomach twisted painfully.
I pressed a hand against it, fingers digging into my ribs. Hunger gnawed sharper than before—not the dull ache I'd grown accustomed to, but something urgent, hollow.
"They forgot," I whispered, trying to sound rational. "That's all, they forgot."
But the words rang false, because they never forgot me.
The sun slipped fully beneath the horizon, and still—no lamps were lit. Normally, as dusk fell, the mansion glowed with warm golden light. Chandeliers flickered to life. Hallway lamps chased the shadows away.
Tonight, darkness claimed the house without resistance. My pulse quickened. Something cold crept along my spine.
This wasn't neglect.
This was absence.
The moon rose, its light spilled through the window, silvering the floor and walls, casting long, distorted shadows that stretched toward me like reaching hands.
My heart began to pound, hard enough that I could hear it in my ears.
"Something's happened," I whispered.
I moved toward the door and pressed my ear against the cold wood and there was nothing, no breathing, no footsteps and no life.
I frowned and then—TAP.
I stiffened.
TAP.
TAP.
Footsteps.
They were slow and deliberate. Not the hurried steps of servants, not the armored rhythm of knights.
These were… wrong, measured, unhurried, as if whoever walked the corridor had all the time in the world—and knew exactly where I was.
My stomach dropped as the sound grew closer. Each step echoed too clearly in the hollow mansion, the noise crawling under my skin like insects.
Closer.
Closer.
Then—Silence.
A long, suffocating silence that pressed against my ears until I could hear my own breathing again—too fast, too shallow.
I opened my mouth to call out—SLAM—!
The door exploded inward.
Wood cracked, hinges screamed and the force sent me flying backward, my body hitting the stone floor hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs.
I cried out, pain flaring white-hot through my back and shoulder. My vision swam as splintered wood settled around me like fallen bones, and then—A voice cut through the darkness.
Low.
Husky.
Cold.
"Finally found you, little one."
My blood turned to ice as I realised that familiar voice. Goosebumps raced violently down my arms as I scrambled backward on my elbows, my body reacting before my mind could catch up.
A figure stood in the doorway.
Too tall, too broad, everything was too much. The shadows clung to him unnaturally, as though the darkness itself refused to let him go. Moonlight spilled behind him, outlining a silhouette that did not belong in a human house.
He stepped forward and the floor creaked under his weight. I crawled back until my shoulders hit the wall, breath coming in sharp, broken gasps.
"W-Who… who are you?" I asked, my voice barely holding together.
He moved again, and this time, he stepped fully into the moonlight.
Black, wavy hair fell across sharp features carved from restraint and something far older than mercy. His eyes—silver, cold, inhumanly bright—locked onto mine with a familiarity that made my stomach twist violently.
A slow smirk curved his lips and my eyes widened.
'No. No, no, no—Those eyes. I knew them, that was—The man I kissed at the masquerade.'
The one the entire court whispered about in fear.
"You…You're—"
He moved and stepped closer....and closer. Until the space between us vanished entirely.
I could feel the heat of him now—unnatural against the chill of the room—his presence pressing in from all sides. He leaned down, bringing his face inches from mine, close enough that I could see the faint glint of moonlight caught in silver eyes that had never learned the meaning of hesitation.
He tilted his head slightly, studying me and a slow smirk curved his lips.
"It's good that you remember me, little one," he murmured, voice low and deliberate, each word chosen to sink deep. "I would hate for something that belongs to me… to forget."
My breath hitched.
My body betrayed me, trembling as fear finally pierced the numb shell I had built around myself. My back pressed harder into the stone wall, as though I could sink into it and disappear.
This man wasn't reckless.
He wasn't loud, he was precise, and... that was far worse. In that moment—heart racing, instincts screaming—I understood one thing with terrifying clarity:
'Whoever this man was…He was far too dangerous, and if I wanted to live—I would have to escape him.'