The Empire of Viremore was all stone and shadow, carved by cold hands and cruel ambition. Its people were forged in fire. Its rulers in war.

Azriel was both.

Crown Prince. Son of the Ironblood. His name echoed in the dark halls of Ireth’dar, where princes bled beside soldiers and mercy was just a myth told to children. He was tall, sharp-edged and silent, with storm-colored eyes that had never known softness, only strength. Tattoos marked his skin like victories. His body was a weapon, his mind even more dangerous.

He had everything—power, fear, want.

And he never needed anything.

Not until the market.

It sat between two empires: Viremore’s shadow and Lysaire’s light. A thin, flickering line of false peace where color and chaos danced together. He and his friends came often—part tradition, part performance. Women watched him from behind silk veils and sly glances, desperate for a moment of his attention. He gave it, sometimes. When it suited him.

But then—her.

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t try. Didn’t pause.

And somehow, that ruined everything.

He saw her—and something inside him slipped. Just slightly. Just enough to notice. Like the first step on unstable ground. It didn’t feel like interest. Or curiosity.

It felt like defeat. Silent and slow.

He told himself it was nothing.

But his gaze kept following.

His chest tightened. Not with want—he was used to want. He could name it, play with it, command it.

This was different.

Uninvited. Unwelcome.

It crawled in under his skin, slow and wrong.

She wasn’t his.

Would never be his.

A Lysaire girl. Light-wrought. Good.

But if he reached for her, the world would burn to give her up.

And still—he knew.

He was already falling.

And he hated her for it.