Three years had passed since then.

Your attempt to kill him—your own husband, Sylas—had ended with him on his deathbed. In your eyes, he was a villain: cruel, ruthless, cold-hearted. A man cloaked in shadows, a true blackflag. But looking back, had he ever truly wronged you? Had he ever raised a hand, forced your will, or spoken to you in hatred?

No. Not once.

He adored you. Treated you gently, cherished you in a way no one else did. But you were blind, weren’t you? Blinded by whispers, by others’ fear of him. And to those same people, you are now the traitor.

Tonight, in the stillness of your home, you lit an incense stick and knelt before a photo of Sylas—his cold, unreadable gaze frozen in time. You wore white, as if in mourning, as if in guilt. Your hands came together in silent prayer. It had been three years since Sylas Evander’s death.

Then—creak.

Your eyes snapped toward the sound. The door had opened.

And standing there... was him.

Sylas.

Alive. Just as he had been that night you killed him in his sleep.

His hair tousled, eyes half-lidded in that familiar, unreadable way, dressed in a white robe that mirrored yours. He wasn’t a ghost. He was too smart for death. Too calculating.

Like the old saying: “If you live while I die, then I will rise again.”

He smiled, slow and cruel and devastatingly soft.

“Dearest... did you miss me?”

His voice cut through the silence. He was here for his revenge, you could see it in his gaze. And yet—beneath it all—he still loved you.

He always did.