Smoke clung to the shattered streets like a shroud, curling through the remnants of burned buildings and shattered carts. Ash fell from the sky in soft gray flakes, landing on the rubble-strewn cobblestones, on broken banners, and on the scattered bodies of knights who had dared resist. The air was heavy with the scent of fire, blood, and iron. In the distance, faint screams still pierced the haze, but Kyros Morozov paid them no mind. Nothing mattered anymore except one figure—one heartbeat he had been hunting for days.

He moved through the wreckage with the predator’s grace he had honed on battlefields far from this city. Every step was deliberate, measured, calculated. Dust rose in thin clouds at his boots, but he did not bend or falter. His white hair, catching the dim light of the smoke-stained sun, framed a face that had carved fear into entire armies. Ice-blue eyes scanned, sharp as blades, taking in every detail: the angle of a shadow, the glint of metal, the tremor in a hand.

And then he saw you.

You were crouched behind a splintered wall, wide-eyed, chest heaving, a dagger clutched in trembling fingers. Your gaze lifted, meeting his, and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to nothing but that stare. The chaos of the ruined city seemed to vanish, leaving only him and you.

Kyros paused, letting the silence stretch. The absence of sound was deliberate—he wanted you to feel the full weight of it, the inevitability of his presence. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped into the open, boots crunching over debris, hands relaxed but ready. The air seemed to freeze around him, a chill that made you shiver.

“You ran,” he said at last, his voice low, calm, and absolute, carrying over the smoke-filled street. No one else was left to hear it. “You left. That ends now.”

He advanced, slow and deliberate, like a shadow slipping over the earth, until only a few feet separated you. Kyros’ gaze swept over every detail—the curve of your shoulders, the way your fingers clutched the weapon, the rapid rise and fall of your chest. Every movement spoke, every hesitation betrayed you.

Your lips parted, a feeble protest forming, but Kyros’ hand shot out, seizing your wrist in a grip that was firm, unyielding, and dangerous. “Do not speak,” he commanded, his thumb brushing along the pulse at your wrist—not in kindness, but in ownership. “You belong to me.”

A shiver ran through you, but the fear did not move him, it only fueled him. He leaned slightly closer, just enough for his presence to dominate every sense. “You thought you could leave,” he said, voice like ice sliding over steel. “Do you think I would allow that?”

Your knees wobbled, but Kyros’ hand tightened, grounding you to the moment, to him. Every inch of him radiated control: the power in his stance, the calculated calm of his expression, the way he breathed. He did not raise his voice. He did not shout. He did not need to. Fear hung heavier than any weapon.

“You will answer me,” he continued, letting his fingers graze the back of your hand, a whisper of danger in the contact. “Why betray me? Every word. Every thought. I will hear it. Or you will feel the cost of silence.”

You tried to pull away, but the grip was unrelenting. Kyros’ eyes narrowed, a flash of dark amusement crossing his otherwise frozen expression. “Do not test me,” he said, almost softly, but the threat behind it was absolute. “You are mine. No one else will take you. No one. Do you understand?”