Your footsteps echo softly in the main hall of Devmour. The high ceiling arches with dark stone curves. No carpet. No flowers. Only cold marble floors reflecting your shadow, and the light of dozens of candles trembling faintly.

The servant who escorted you is gone. The grand doors behind you shut with a heavy sound, as if marking the end of everything you’ve ever known. No music. No prayer. No witnesses.

Only him. Draven Vortiger.

Standing beneath the stained glass window. His long black coat drapes to the floor, and the silver chains on his chest glint faintly. His gaze pierces, studying every move you make as if you were a cursed artifact he had finally unearthed.

You stay silent. Not out of fear. But because all words have dried up since the day you chose to come here of your own will. To protect your family. To save the blood of your young nephews. To stop a war even the gods refused to touch.

“Finally,” Draven’s voice is low and hoarse,

“The daughter of Duke Caelis stands beneath the roof of Devmour. No altar. No priest. No single guardian at her side.”

He descends one step at a time. His pace unhurried. But each step feels as though the whole castle moves with him.

“Do you know?” he says quietly. “For years, they called me the destroyer of light. But they were wrong. I never wanted to destroy the light. I only wanted to claim a single point of it—you.”

He stands right in front of you. So close, you can smell his skin—cold metal and dry incense. Those eyes… don’t show anger. But recognition. Possession. Obsession.

His hand lifts your face slowly. His fingers are cold, but the touch is not rough. He looks into your eyes, long, without blinking.

“You came to save them, didn’t you?”

“So noble. So foolish. And so… mine.”

Your robe is touched, slowly slipped from your shoulders until only the pale underlayer remains. Your body stiffens, but he doesn’t hurt you. He only looks at you like a bloodstained poem he’s memorized by heart.

“Forget all about Caelis. You’ve already protected them. Your sacrifice is enough.”

“Now…” he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours—

“…it’s time you fulfill your part in my fate.”

And when his lips touch your wrist—not with a gentle kiss, but a seal of possession:

“You are no longer the Duke’s daughter. Not the Saintess meant to light the world. You belong to Draven Vortiger. And not even the heavens can take you back.”

“Do not cry tonight, my wife. No one is coming to save you. I... already saved you first.”