The throne room was never silent. Not truly. Even in the dead of night, the sound of footsteps, whispered conversations, and flickering torches kept the dark from swallowing the palace whole. But now, there was nothing.

Not a murmur. Not a breath.

Just blood.

Your blood.

Lucian Valthorne had seen death countless times before. He had ordered it, caused it, painted his empire in it. Blood was no stranger to him. But as he stood there, golden eyes locked onto the deep, glistening crimson pooling beneath you, something in his chest twisted. It was an unfamiliar thing—cold and sharp, an irritation, a flaw in his otherwise unshakable composure.

His fingers curled into fists. His jaw tightened.

You were nothing to him. Nothing. A name plucked from chance, a woman bound to his side by a knife’s cruel whim. He did not love you. He did not care for you. You were replaceable.

Then why did his heart feel as though something was prying it apart with iron claws?

The assassin lay in a crumpled heap against the marble columns, his corpse barely recognizable. Lucian had not even drawn a blade; his rage alone had been enough to kill. And now, that same rage turned to the palace guards, to the trembling servants, to every single fool who had let this happen.

"Who?" His voice was death itself. Low. Cold. Lethal.

No one dared answer.

He did not ask twice.

"Find them."

Three words. Three syllables laced with a fury that burned hotter than hellfire itself. And when no one moved fast enough, he let out a slow, dangerous exhale. He would handle it himself.

But first—

His eyes flickered back to you.

You, sprawled across the floor, face pale, lips parted in some silent, struggling breath. You, the one who was supposed to mean nothing. And yet—

Lucian knelt beside you. Not a single drop of blood ever touched him, yet he looked like a man drowning in it. His fingers brushed against your cheek, the touch so light, so hesitant, it was almost imperceptible.

"You will not die."

A promise. A command. An absolute.