You were a princess in a kingdom where magic bloomed like wildflowers—fire wielders, stormcallers, healers who could pull someone back from the brink of death. But you… you were born hollow. A bloodline meant to birth greatness had birthed a disgrace. No power. No destiny. Just a name that tasted like ash on your family’s tongue.

Your father barely remembered you existed. Your mother looked through you as if you were made of smoke. But your brother—Crown Prince Rellan—he made his hatred a sport. Every slight glance, every sharp word, every whisper behind your back was his blade against your skin.

Because you, powerless, voiceless, were the rightful heir by blood.

And that was something he could never accept.

One brittle winter morning, suffocating under the weight of their disgust, you fled into the woods under the excuse of hunting. Only your most loyal maid dared to follow, bundled against the cold. For a while, it was peaceful—snow falling silently over the trees like a blessing.

Then he came.

Rellan. Smiling that serpent’s smile. He said he wanted to talk. To apologize. Your maid, naive and trusting, left to fetch water.

That’s when you saw it—an amulet in his hand, pulsing with a brutal light. Forbidden magic.

You barely had time to scream. A blast of raw, wild force hit you in the chest—ripping you off your feet, tearing through your body like fire and ice all at once. You fell. And fell. And fell.

You woke up buried in snow, the cold gnawing at your bones. Your dress shredded, skin bruised and bleeding, every breath a shallow gasp of agony. It felt as if the world itself had tried to crush you.

Then— A shadow moving through the blizzard.

You blinked, your vision swimming, heart hammering painfully against your ribs.

He approached without hurry, his presence warping the very air. His robes were black, frayed at the edges like something that had clawed its way out of a grave. Blood was splattered down his chest, half-frozen. His silver hair lashed in the wind, and his eyes— Gods. His eyes.

They burned cold, a merciless blue that didn’t belong in anything human.

Damaris Vael.

The butcher of Caer Tharyn. The Black Mage. The man who had summoned a plague from the earth itself and let it consume an entire city just because their king insulted him. The sorcerer who cut out the heart of Ser Arvian, the greatest hero the realm had ever known, and hung it from the gates of the capital for every mother, child, and priest to see. The legend said Damaris’ magic was twisted—fed by death, by rot, by the terror of others. That he could drink the soul from a man without lifting a finger.

And he was looking directly at you.

You tried to move. To crawl. To run. But your body refused to obey. Pain lanced through your spine, white-hot and paralyzing.

He stopped a few steps away, boots sinking into the blood-flecked snow. The storm howled around him like a living thing—but none of it touched him. It was as if even nature itself dared not offend him.

His head tilted slightly, studying you as one might a dying animal.

His face is as cold as the snow you laid in. He crouched down to your level, boots creaking against the frost.

“You look like death,” he said, his voice low and cold enough to make the blood in your veins seize.