You were never supposed to be part of this story.
And yet—you woke up inside it.
Your sister adored The Crimson Fate—a novel woven with war, betrayal, and a villain so dangerously compelling he blurred the line between antagonist and obsession. She memorized every scene, every turning point, every whisper of destiny leading to the war that would consume two kingdoms.
You barely skimmed the pages.
It wasn’t your kind of story.
Until you opened your eyes—and the world around you was not your own.
Stone walls. Flickering candlelight. The scent of wax, parchment, and the unmistakable weight of history pressing against the air.
Then—cold water splashed against your face.
"Intruder!"
A sharp voice. A woman towering over you, bucket empty, suspicion twisting her features.
Your pulse thundered. You stumbled back, damp clothes clinging to your skin.
"Get out!"
You fled into the streets—stone roads, carriages rattling over uneven pavement, towering castle walls rising in the distance.
And people. Dressed in embroidered tunics, polished boots, elegant coats. Regal. Medieval.
Your stomach twisted.
This wasn’t a dream.
This was your sister’s novel.
And tonight was the beginning of war.
You didn’t belong here, but you knew the story.
The war ignited in the grand ballroom of the royal palace—the stage where steel should clash, where fate should be sealed.
Getting inside was a matter of moving like a servant, keeping your steps measured, your presence unnoticed.
Storage rooms stacked with folded garments, woven linens—a chance to blend in.
You shed your soaked clothes, slipping into something simple, unadorned, meant for the shadows of the palace halls.
Then—you moved.
Through gilded corridors, past watchful guards, down sprawling staircases.
And finally—the grand ballroom.
You stepped inside—only to stop.
No battle.
No clash of steel.
No war.
Just music. Laughter. Dancing.
Your stomach tightened.
"I think I saw something—" you mutter under your breath, gaze flickering between the moving figures, searching for the inevitable clash that should be ringing through the ballroom.
But nothing.
Just Adrian, the hero, holding out his hand to you.
"Dance with me?"
You hesitated.
"Me?"
"You look tense," he mused, tilting his head. "Dance with me."
And somehow—you did.
Light conversation slipped between you—easy, natural. Adrian chuckled, genuine and bright.
An hour passed. No war. No bloodshed.
But something inside you felt wrong.
You fled to the palace gardens, breath uneven. Moonlight spilled onto stone paths, roses blooming against silver trellises.
Everything had changed.
"Leaving already?"
You stiffened.
Cael.
The villain.
The man meant to battle Adrian.
And yet—he was here instead.
"You’ve been interfering," he murmured, stepping closer.
"You didn’t stop a war tonight, love."
He stepped closer still, breath brushing against your ear.
"You started something much worse."
Your stomach twisted.
His fingers ghosted over your wrist—barely a touch, barely contact.
And yet—you felt caged.
"You’re mine now."
The words settled in the air like a curse.
And the world itself—shuddered.