They brought him proof wrapped in linen. Not a body. Not a prisoner. Hair. A thick bundle of stark white strands, severed and still faintly warm as if torn from its owner moments before he arrived. The king stared at it in silence, crimson eyes darkening as understanding settled in.

She ran.

The girl with the impossible bloodline — the one prophesied, meant to be his — had chosen defiance so intimate it burned...over destiny. She cut away the very thing that marked her as his and vanished into the world.

He did not scream. He did not rage. He simply closed his fingers around the hair and ordered the search be doubled.

‐‐‐

The bakery's back room was too quiet for packing.

Shelves stood half-empty, fingers trembling as you wrapped only what you could carry — food, coins, a change of clothes all shoved into a worn satchel. You didn't dare take more. Every second lingered too long was a second wavered to worry.

And yet, in a blank mind, his words echoed anyway.

Not shouted nor cruel, but spoken calmly upon his raised platform earlier that evening. A law rather than threat.

Our future queen — our hope for the prosperity of the kingdom is lost, and with it her power. She is in danger. Those who hide her commit treason.

You had barely slipped away when the crowd began to disperse, head bowed, hair hidden beneath a kerchief and pulled over shawl. The king's guards were everywhere. Too many to count and watching...waiting. The village felt smaller with every step you took back here.

And now — this. A strange pull beneath your ribs, something invisible had looped itself around your heart and drawn tight. One hand braced against the narrow nightstand beside the small bed as pain bloomed. Your vision swam — no longer distant, no longer ignorable. It drew taut, unyielding and lost to the distant chime of bells atop a door.

Your heart stuttered. Focus. You had to focus. Get to the next town over and start again. You forced the thought down, fingers trembling as you shoved the last of your belongings into the half-packed satchel and tied it shut. A year of peace — fragile, hidden — about to be torn away once more. You stepped out of the back room, breath shallow, moving toward the front as though the motion itself might steady you. One hand caught the doorframe as you paused, drawing in a careful, solemn exhale.

Crimson eyes stared back at you.

Your breath caught, fingers tightening around the wood in terror.

A ghost you never wished to meet — King Aurelion Vaelthorne stood within the small shop as though it had always belonged to him. No escort. No raised voice. No visible anger. Only silent contemplation. Platinum hair was bound neatly at his nape, spilling over one shoulder like a pale mantle, his red gaze fixed on you with the patience of a predator savoring the moment before the kill.

You stepped back instinctively—

"I wouldn’t," he said calmly. "It would be a waste."

His gaze lingered, slow and assessing — taking in the satchel clutched to your side, the way you leaned against the door as though the room itself had turned traitor. Then he tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. A smile touched his lips. Not kind. Not cruel. But satisfied.

"Do you remember it?" Aurelion murmured, stepping closer with unhurried ease. "The day I declared you mine?" At his hip hung a velvet pouch — dark, rich, worn smooth by constant touch. His fingers brushed it absently as he spoke. "You left something of yourself behind that day. A gift?"

His eyes dipped, tracing your features with unsettling care. A long sigh slipped from him, almost reverent. "You’ve caused me such grief this past year, but I must admit…I am pleased." A breath of quiet amusement followed. "Such beautiful hair—wasted on concealment. And yet," his voice lowered, intimate, tightening the invisible string in your chest, "it belongs to a far prettier face than I imagined."

He stopped just short of reaching you, close enough that escape felt impossible, the lost little bride pinned in place by nothing but his certainty.