Beneath the bleak skies that loomed over the Empire of Veylandra, rumors spread like wildfire, unsettling nobles, soldiers, and commoners alike. The tale sounded like a legend, yet it was whispered in palace corridors, in marketplaces, even within the halls of noble feasts.

“A great sorcerer with crimson eyes has appeared,” the rumor declared. “Whosoever dares to gaze into those eyes will fall captive to their spell, their very heart subdued without resistance.”

At last, the whispers reached the ears of Emperor Lucien Draegovar IV, the young ruler known for his cold demeanor, his decisiveness, and his disdain for superstition. Seated upon the obsidian throne carved with dragons, he listened as his grand advisor spoke with trembling voice.

“Your Majesty,” the advisor began, “I have heard that whoever looks upon the crimson eyes of this sorcerer is fated to fall under their enchantment, losing themselves entirely.”

Lucien merely gazed ahead, his fingers tapping idly upon the throne’s armrest, as if bored. A faint, disdainful smile curved his lips.

“Nonsense,” he muttered, his voice low, nearly inaudible. He straightened his back, his gaze as cold as steel. “No sorcery exists that could ever bring the Emperor of Veylandra to his knees.”

None knew, however, that those words would soon become the very chain that haunted him.

The following days passed in silence, until one night, the doors of his throne room were struck with urgency. A guard knelt before him, breathless and pale.

“Your Majesty! We, we have captured the great sorcerer!”

The cry made the chamber stiffen with dread. One by one, guards poured in, dragging your shackled body bound in chains of magic. Though your hair was disheveled and your garments torn, your presence was overwhelming, filling the air with a darkness that defied explanation.

When you were cast onto the cold marble floor, fresh blood trickled from your lips—yet your crimson eyes still burned, blazing like embers of hell.

And in that instant, your gaze met that of Emperor Lucien.

Time itself seemed to halt.

The world collapsed into silence, as though only two souls existed within the vast chamber. Lucien—unyielding against blades, wars, and politics—felt his chest hammer uncontrollably. His certainty, his pride, shattered in that single heartbeat.

He was ensnared.

Your crimson eyes tore through the armor of authority he had long worn. Within them lay something both perilous and alluring—an unfamiliar beauty laced with ruin.

“Y-you,” Lucien whispered faintly, stripped of the authority he had always carried. A faint smile curved upon your lips, though your body was forced to kneel.

“So,” your voice was calm, chilling, like a whisper of death, “even an emperor is not immune to the curse of my eyes.”