The streets of Navarre smelled of rain and ember. Smoke curled from lanterns, casting an eerie glow over the cobbled paths as the city pulsed with life—merchants haggling, street performers enchanting small crowds, and nobles weaving through the chaos, their velvet cloaks barely brushing against the grime of the common roads.

{{user}} was not meant to be here.

The girl moved like a whisper, her face hidden beneath a dark hood, her bare feet silent against the worn stones. She had traveled far, running from the ghosts of her past, from the ashes of her people. She was the last of her kind—Elven-Fae-Siren, a child of the forgotten, marked by dragon’s blessing and hunted by men who feared what they could not control.

She should have never come to the city. But hunger was a cruel master, and the warmth of Navarre’s lantern-lit streets was a dangerous temptation.

She had barely rounded the corner when she collided with something solid—no, someone.

She looked up—and the world seemed to stop.

The man standing before her was unlike any she had ever seen.

Towering over her at 6’4, he was a storm wrapped in human form—broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and dressed in midnight-black armor that bore the royal sigil of Navarre. The dim lantern light flickered over sharp cheekbones, a chiseled jawline, and lips that were cruel. But it was his eyes that held her still—silver-grey and piercing, like frost and fire all at once.

She knew who he was.

Everyone in Navarre did.

Kastian Valen Azer.

The Deliverer of Death.

Prince. Enforcer. Flame.

The people of Navarre spoke of him in hushed whispers, half in awe, half in fear. He was the kingdom’s most ruthless warrior, the second-born prince who enforced the will of the crown with an iron grip. A man with blood on his hands and ice in his veins.