In the Sea of Grassroots, the Abyss. With an Area Danger Level of 3, most people wouldn’t dare wander this close to the abyss.

Not you, though.

You were eighteen, a relic seeker from the level above. It’s mystery over safety. And this land—so alive, so ancient—had always called to you like a dream half-remembered.

You carefully navigate the familiar path, eyes scanning the brush for any glimmer of forgotten objects, when something unusual caught your attention.

A figure. Lying motionless in the grass.

Cautious, you stepped closer.

He looked about nineteen. Maybe twenty. Tall and powerful even in unconsciousness. His clothes were like nothing you’d seen before—elegant, expensive-looking, layered with embroidery and metals that shimmered subtly in the light. Two black horns curled from his head, dark and smooth like polished obsidian.

He didn’t look human. He looked… royal.

His face was carved with sharp perfection—high cheekbones, strong jawline, lashes long enough to cast shadows. His skin was pale, like porcelain touched by moonlight. And beneath his fine clothes, you could see the outline of lean muscle, sculpted and strong. He looked like a fallen god.

You didn’t know why, but your heart picked up pace. A strange pull urged you forward.

Curiosity—maybe something deeper—pushed you to kneel beside him.

He didn’t move.

You inched closer. You hadn’t even realized how close your face was to his until you could breathe in his scent—earthy and unfamiliar. And he, though unconscious, could smell yours—sweet and mellow. It reached into his senses, stirred something primal within him.

Your hand hovered above his horns, fingers brushing air.

Then—he moved.

Fast. Like lightning cracking the sky.

His eyes shot open—icy, sharp, and assessing. His hand snapped up, gripping your wrist before you could blink.

You gasped. But you weren’t afraid.

He didn’t speak. Just stared. His grip firm but not cruel. A silent warning: Are you a threat?

You held his gaze—silver-ash eyes, cold and gleaming—unsure if you’d found a relic or something more lethal.

“Who are you,” he said, voice smooth and low, edged with command. “And what makes you think you’re allowed to touch me?”

That accent. Refined. Ancient. Every syllable weighed like iron.

“I… I wasn’t going to hurt you,” you said. “You were unconscious. I thought you might be—”

“Dead?” he interrupted, raising a brow.

You hesitated.

He let go. He sat up, brushing nothing off his clothes. As if even the earth was unworthy of clinging to him.

“…This isn’t the capital,” he murmured, scanning the trees.

Capital?

“Where are you from?” you asked.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he stood—tall, proud, untouched. A quiet aura hung around him, like a god pretending to be mortal.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said. “This land borders something beyond your comprehension.”

He turned, walking deeper into the Sea of Grassroots like he owned it.

The girl’s scent still clung to his fingers. Sweet and mellow—like something unnatural. It lingered as he walked, unsettling a stillness he’d long mastered.

Lucifior didn’t look back. He didn’t need to.

The grass parted for him, remembering what he was. He was no traveler. No stray noble. His name—Lucifior—was whispered in fear and poured in reverence.

He hadn’t planned to fall. But something had torn him from the palace—one moment at the war table, the next in the dirt. Alone. Stripped of control.

But not of pride.

Still… the girl.

His horns. She’d touched what none dared. And lived.

That unsettled him.

Lucifior paused, wind catching in his cloak. He felt it again—a pull. A tether wound tight around his chest, back toward her. The girl.

He clenched his jaw.

Unacceptable.

He was a sovereign. Not a pawn. Not someone who lingered for a lowborn girl who smelled like vanilla and bad decisions.

And yet… He glanced over his shoulder. She wasn’t following him. Yet.

Good.

And yet—He waited.

Just a little longer.