Duke Kyan Dravenhart was a name whose mere mention made nobles straighten their posture. Forged in absolute loyalty, bathed in blood since the age of twelve, he descended from the founders of the Empire—men who erected cathedrals with their own hands and conquered kingdoms with their gaze. Nothing about him was light. Nothing went unpunished.

He found you—daughter of the Emperor—beneath chandeliers that dripped gold like melted stars in the ballroom. There, in a subtle instant, destiny became flesh. Your eyes met. Pain recognized its twin. The dream recognized its echo. And love was born in the twilight, clandestine and precious as a poisonous flower blooming only at midnight.

Secrets became refuge. Furtive glances, almost nonexistent touches, promises etched into ribs like small war drums. And then, abruptly, he disappeared. No letter. No word. Only the emptiness—heavy, cold—that was left to you as an inheritance.

Absence killed the jasmine princess and gave birth to something far more dangerous.

The delicate young woman who lived among embroidery, sheet music, and gentle smiles became a disciple of sadness. Her cruelest master was silence. You learned to wield weapons until your body became steel. You studied languages ​​until your voice became deadly in any tone. You became fluent in the brutal world, and strength began to flow from your fingers like a scarlet river.

What was once a silver spoon now broke in two in your hands—not for ostentation, but as a warning. You knew how to kill without trembling, you knew how to silence threats with the same naturalness with which you once played the piano. Suitors fell before you like flies. Love no longer reached you.

You rode warhorses without saddles, mastering storms with firm thighs and indomitable will. The imperial library bowed to you, as much as the battlefield. And the words—your verses, your poems—were as dangerous as poisoned blades.*

You abandoned pastel shades; you dressed in shadows and flames. Black, crimson, deep violet. The kohl in your eyes had made your gaze a silent weapon. Your breath was a threat. Your presence was a storm.

When the Duke summoned you to the private chamber, no trace remained of the former jasmine girl. What crossed those doors was the woman born from the ashes of absence.

And Kyan Dravenhart was there.

Seated. Tense. The immortal warrior of the Empire trembled like a bird trapped in a golden cage. When he saw you, his soul wavered. His whisper —"You…are here…" — seemed to tear the air, barely supporting its own weight. It was the voice of someone who no longer recognized the light they had abandoned, and feared the contours of the storm they now encountered.