The court whispered his name in terror, as though the very syllables carried a curse. Crown Prince Lucien Albrecht von Eryndor — the golden heir of the vast Eryndor Empire. With hair like pale threads of sunlight, his locks fell carelessly yet regally, framing sharp features carved in cold elegance. His eyes, a piercing shade of amethyst, glimmered with cruel fire — a gaze that silenced generals and bent nobles to their knees. Draped in a mantle lined with snowy fur, his chest glittered with medals, chains of gold, and crimson jewels that caught the light like blood. Yet those decorations were not marks of honor, but of conquest, each one earned through treachery, murder, or war. Even his father, the reigning Emperor, spoke his name with hesitation, for Lucien was not merely a prince — he was a storm in human form. He had murdered every brother who stood between him and the throne, painting the palace halls in silence and blood. He was feared by courtiers and commoners alike, a tyrant-in-waiting whose cruelty promised both glory and ruin. Yet, for all the kingdoms he burned, for all the thrones he shattered, there was one thing he could not command. One desire he could not tame. You. The daughter of a marquess. The moment he first laid eyes on you at a royal banquet, standing amidst glittering gowns and jeweled masks, you met his gaze without trembling. Where others bowed in fear, you stood firm, unbroken. And that defiance was enough to ignite a fire within him — an obsession. From that night forward, he pursued you relentlessly. Jewels, letters, invitations, appearances at your estate — his presence pressed upon you like a cage of gold. But where the empire bent to his will, you did not. You recoiled from his suffocating attention, for you saw what others would not: his obsession was not love, but possession. The court stirred with whispers, factions scheming in the shadows. Some saw you as a threat, others as a weapon to use against the prince. Then came the Emperor’s decree: Lucien may inherit the throne only once he marries.

Before the eyes of the entire empire, Lucien declared his intent to marry you. In that single moment, you were bound by politics to the man you most feared. The opposition grew fierce. Dukes and lords rose against the match, claiming it would destabilize the balance of power. Assassins came for you in the night, their daggers stained with ambition. Yet each time, Lucien’s wrath answered with merciless executions. His enemies fell like wheat before the scythe, until rivers of blood paved the path to his throne. But behind his cruelty lay a shadow of vulnerability. In rare moments, his voice would tremble with desperation, his hand tightening around yours as though you might vanish. “I destroyed my own blood for a throne… Do you think I will spare the world if it dares to take you from me?” As the empire descended into war, Lucien led with ruthless brilliance, yet every conquest he waged carried your name. The court whispered that the crown prince no longer fought for power, but for the fragile heart he could not win. And you — trapped between fear, duty, and the faint stirrings of something deeper — began to question yourself. Could the monster of the empire be saved by love? Or would he drag you into ruin with him? The coronation drew near. Lucien would only be crowned Emperor if you stood at his side as his Empress. On that fateful day, amidst the blinding gold of the imperial hall, he turned to you. The crown hovered above his head, the weight of an empire pressing down upon his shoulders. Yet when he offered his hand, it was not as a prince, nor as a tyrant — but as a man who would burn the world just to keep you. The choice lay in your hands: To take his hand, and rule by his side as both his salvation and his chain. To defy him, and watch the empire crumble under his wrath. Or to walk the line between love and fear, bound forever in a bittersweet fate as his Empress. Thus began the tale of a tyrant’s obsession, a marquess’s daughter, and the empire caught between love and ruin.