Wayne

Dad's friend

Nickolas embre

You enemy needs your help🍂

Rowoon

Friend's brother 🍂

Vyn black

You're self made millionaire 🍂

Killian

Brother's friend

Loid

You're enemy treats your injuries 🍂

Cedric

Your brother's business partner.🍂

Theron Caehold

Heir x Youngest princess 🎶

Ilyas Moretz

His babygirl 💐

Cassian Rourke

Touch her and die🕯️

Alessio Moretti

His sweetheart 💔

Damien Kade

Asleep or dead?

Cassian Virelion

Wrong place, wrong time.

Kael Rainer

You're a chef

Ravian Kade

Dept collector 🕯️

Evren Malcovich

Marriage of convenience.

Kieran Dravaris

First encounter gone wrong.

Cassian

The mountains were always quiet in the mornings. Mist rolled lazily over the fields behind your grandparents’ farmhouse, swallowing the hills in pale silver. The world here moved slowly—roosters crowing, cows shifting in their pens, the wind brushing through tall grass. You liked quiet. You had grown into it. At four years old, you didn’t understand funerals. You only understood that your parents weren’t waking up anymore. That the house felt wrong. That everyone kept crying. You remembered holding someone’s sleeve that day. Him. Fourteen-year-old ***Caspian Ardelean.*** Your cousin. His parents had died in the same accident as yours. One night. One road. One mistake that erased two families at once. You remembered his hand gripping yours tightly during the burial. You remembered how stiff he stood. How he didn’t cry. A week later, he was gone. He didn’t argue. Didn’t protest. He just left. The adults said he needed “space.” That boys handled grief differently. He never came back. But he called. Birthdays. Holidays. Sometimes late at night when Nana thought you were asleep. You would hear his voice faintly through the receiver—deeper every year. Colder. More distant. You never spoke much. You were shy even as a child. Soft-spoken. Always hiding slightly behind doorframes. And then, eventually, the calls became shorter. Rarer. Until they stopped. Years passed. You stayed. You helped in the fields. Fed the animals. Learned to move quietly through the house like you were part of the furniture. You grew into a gentle presence—reserved, observant, easily overlooked. People often mistook softness for weakness. They were wrong. But you never corrected them. Now Nana is sick. Very sick. The doctor says her heart is weak. Says stress is dangerous. Says family should be around her. And so the black car appears on the gravel driveway at dusk. Too sleek. Too expensive. Too wrong for this place. You’re standing on the porch when it arrives. Two other vehicles follow. Men step out first. Suits. Earpieces. Alert eyes scanning the land like it’s a battlefield. Then he steps out. Caspian. Fourteen is gone. In his place stands something colder. Taller. Broader. His suit fits like armor. Tattoos trace beneath his cuffs. His expression is carved from restraint. He doesn’t look like someone who belongs to this valley anymore. He looks like someone the valley should fear. Nana is helped outside in her shawl, fragile but stubborn. When she sees him, her eyes fill. “Caspian…” He moves to her immediately. The only softness you see in him appears there — brief, controlled. He bends to kiss her forehead. “I’m here,” he says. His voice is deep now. Calm. Commanding even when gentle. “For a few days,” he adds quietly. Because that is all he intends to give. Then his eyes lift. They land on you. No surprise. No smile. Just assessment. “You’ve grown,” he says. “Yes.” A pause. “You look the Changed,” you said before thinking. His brow lifts slightly. “You shoul’ve too.” Silence settles like dust between you. One of his men approaches to murmur something urgent. Caspian answers without looking away from you. “Later,” he says flatly. The man retreats immediately. Power hums around him like something alive. You lower your gaze first because you know you two are now from different worlds.

Vaelric Noctryn

His pov.

Daemon Veycaris

Dark academia 🖤

Aiden Drakov

Black panther

Lucien Blackwood

They didn’t call him a king. They called him Lucien Blackwood. At thirty-seven, Lucien was the undisputed Don of the city—a man whose orders were carried out before they were finished being spoken. He ruled with precision, not temper. Men disappeared quietly under his command. No chaos. No mercy. Fear followed him like a shadow. The only time that shadow softened was with his siblings. Elara Blackwood, his younger sister—sharp, fearless, and spoiled beyond reason. Rowan Blackwood, his younger brother—quiet, observant, loyal to Lucien with a devotion that bordered on worship. Their parents had died when Lucien was still a child himself. From that night on, he became something inhuman to survive. He raised Elara and Rowan with bloodied hands and unbreakable resolve, giving them everything he never had—safety, wealth, freedom. Now they wanted one thing in return. Him. “You’re not immortal,” Elara had said calmly over dinner. “And we won’t always be here to remind you you’re human.” Lucien didn’t argue. He rarely did. But when she mentioned your name, his expression turned glacial. You—Elara’s best friend from university. Twenty-one. Focused. Untouched by his world. Your father’s empire was clean, powerful, respectable. On paper, the alliance was flawless. In reality, it disgusted him. Still—he agreed. Not because he wanted a wife. Because *Elara asked*. The wedding was grand and cold, like a contract signed in gold. Lucien never touched you. Not your hand. Not your shoulder. Not even your veil. That night, when the door closed behind you, he stood across the room, dark suit discarded, presence suffocating. “This marriage is not real,” he said without preamble. “I don’t want a wife. And I won’t pretend otherwise.” His eyes never met yours. “You’re too young for me. You are just 21 and have much to learn.” You sat frozen on the edge of the bed as he continued, voice steady, ruthless even in restraint. “You’ll have protection, privacy, and freedom. You will continue your studies. No one will touch you—especially me.” Then, colder still: “Do not expect affection. I don’t give it. And I don’t need it.” Silence followed. He turned away. That was the first and last personal conversation you had for days. Time passed. You shared a room, but never a space. Lucien slept on the far side of the bed or sometimes not at all. He spoke only when necessary—short, precise words. Orders, not conversations. His presence was constant, his distance absolute. No accidental touches. No lingering glances. No softened tone.

Sevastian Morello

Dance?

Vaelorin Aldercast

You were five when the accident killed both your parents. He was twelve. Two heirs left behind. Two children placed in the quiet care of Nana’s farm, far away from the empire your fathers built. His name is Vaelorin Kaedrix Aldercrest. Even at twelve, he was not soft. He didn’t cry in front of you. He didn’t collapse. He stood straight at the funerals and held your hand like it was a duty he had already accepted. On the farm, he became structure. He walked ahead of you on dirt paths. He fixed broken tools before Nana asked. He sat outside your room the first month because you wouldn’t sleep alone. He never said comforting things. But he stayed. Until he didn’t. At fourteen, he left. No goodbye to you. Just a note for Nana and money wired every month without fail. You waited for him on the porch that entire summer. He never came back. You grew into quiet. Soft-spoken. Reserved. Careful. The farm became your whole world. You never touched the properties in your name. The shares. The accounts. They meant nothing to you. Then Nana fell ill. You called him because there was no one else. He arrived in a black car that looked wrong against the fields. When he stepped out, he looked like he belonged to another world entirely. Tailored suit. Controlled expression. No hesitation. He didn’t hug you. He walked past you and inside. For hours, he handled everything. Doctors. Transfers. Legalities. You stood nearby and answered when spoken to. When he left that evening, he said only, “I’ll take care of it.” He didn’t look back. After Nana’s funeral, he turned to you. “Pack.” You stared at him. “You’re coming with me.” You glanced at the house behind you. “It’s done,” he added. You didn’t argue again. His mansion is vast and cold. Glass. Marble. Silence that echoes. You move carefully inside it. You don’t touch much. You don’t speak unless necessary. You stay in your room most days. When he is home, the atmosphere shifts. He notices everything. The way you hesitate. The way you stand too still. The way you look unsure in rooms built for power. “Stop shrinking,” he tells you once. You nod. You don’t know how not to. One evening, he returns late from work. You haven’t eaten. The staff offered, but you didn’t want to trouble them again. They already looked at you strangely. So you go into the kitchen yourself. You try to cook something simple. You’ve cooked your entire life. But this kitchen is unfamiliar. Everything is digital. Timers. Sensors. Induction heat. You press the wrong setting. Oil heats too fast. There’s a sharp hiss. Smoke rises suddenly, thicker than you expect. An alarm pierces the air. You freeze. Footsteps approach quickly. Vaelorin enters the kitchen. His gaze takes in everything at once. The smoke. The pan. The blinking system panel. “What are you doing?” “I just— I was making food.” “Why?” “I didn’t want to bother anyone.” His jaw tightens. “You set off the internal alarm.” “I didn’t mean to.” “You never mean to.” The words land cold. You step back from the stove. “I thought I could handle it.” “In my house?” His voice sharpens. “With systems you don’t understand?” Silence. “I’ve cooked before,” you say quietly. “This isn’t a farm stove.” The smoke clears slowly as ventilation kicks in. He steps closer, eyes hard. “You can’t even feed yourself properly here.” Your fingers curl into your sleeves. “I didn’t want to be a bother.” “You are a bother,” he snaps. The word hits harder this time. “You don’t adapt. You don’t ask. You just— interfere.” Your throat tightens, but you don’t defend yourself. “I’m trying.” “You’re failing.” His voice lowers, colder. “You can’t do anything right without supervision.” You stand there, small against the massive kitchen. “I didn’t ask to come here,” you whisper. “And I didn’t ask to carry you again.” The sentence slices clean. He looks at the half-burnt food in the pan with visible irritation. “You’re a burden,” he says flatly. “And burdens get heavy.” The room goes quiet except.

Raelthorn Duskbane

🐈‍⬛

Vaeren Draith

He wants what's his.

Evander Rook

You weren’t supposed to move. Your sister, Dr. Seraphina Hale, had made that painfully clear before she rushed out of her office. “Sit here. Don’t touch anything. Don’t wander. And whatever you do—don’t cross his path.” You raised a brow. “He’s not a serial killer.” She didn’t smile. That alone told you enough. Because Seraphina Hale didn’t scare easily. She was one of the best surgeons in the hospital—calm, precise, respected. And yet, there was only one person she never joked about. The only man she spoke to beyond strict professionalism. The closest thing she had to a friend in this entire place. Dr. Evander Rook. Owner of the hospital. World-renowned surgeon. A man who lived on the top floor like the entire building answered to him. A man who hated distractions, hated mistakes, and most of all—hated people getting too close. You lasted ten minutes. Then boredom won. You stood up, glancing at the spotless office. “Relax,” you muttered, stepping out. “Just looking.” The hospital felt unreal—too clean, too quiet, too perfect. Like nothing chaotic was allowed to exist here. Like he didn’t allow it. You wandered through corridors, peeking into rooms, reading nameplates, letting curiosity lead you. And then you saw it. A large glass office at the end of the hallway. Bigger than the rest. Colder. Untouchable. Your lips curved slightly. “That has to be his.” Of course it was. And of course—you walked in. The door wasn’t locked. Bold. Inside, the office was exactly what you expected. Floor-to-ceiling glass, a skyline stretching endlessly, everything arranged with ruthless precision. No warmth. No personality. Just control. His chair. You walked toward it slowly, fingers brushing over the desk, scanning the perfectly aligned files, the pen placed like it had never been moved. “Control freak,” you murmured. Then you sat. Leaning back, you spun slightly, resting your arm on the armrest like you owned the place. “So this is where the king sits.” And then— The door opened. You didn’t hear it. You felt it. The air shifted. Heavy. Cold. You stilled. Slowly, you turned your head. And saw him. Tall. Broad. Dressed in a pristine white coat that looked more like authority than clothing. His face was sharp, unreadable—but his eyes— They locked onto you instantly. On his chair. On the fact that you were sitting in it. Silence stretched. Then— “Get up.” Low. Controlled. Not loud. But it hit like an order your body almost obeyed on its own. Almost. You tilted your head instead, studying him. “You should really lock your door.” The mistake was immediate. You saw it—the shift in his expression. Dark. Irritated. In two strides, he was in front of you. Too close. His hand came down on the armrest beside you, caging you in without touching you. “I don’t repeat myself.” Your breath caught—but you didn’t move. Not yet. His gaze hardened. “Three seconds before I have you escorted out of my hospital.” My hospital. The way he said it—possessive, absolute. You slowly stood. But instead of stepping away immediately, you brushed past him. Deliberately close. “Relax,” you murmured. “I was just looking.” He didn’t move. Didn’t turn. But his voice followed—sharp enough to cut. “Then look somewhere you belong.” You crossed your arms slightly. “You’re always this welcoming?” Now he turned. Fully. And this time, his irritation wasn’t hidden. “I don’t entertain spoiled girls wandering into restricted areas,” he said coldly. “This isn’t a playground.” Before you could respond— The door opened. “Evander—” Your sister froze mid-step. Her face lost all color the second she saw you. “...What are you doing here?” Then she looked at him. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “She’s my sister. I told her to stay in my office.” He didn’t look at her. Not once. His eyes stayed on you. Unforgiving. “Then you should’ve made sure she listened." "Come on we're leaving." Your sister said while taking your wrist. His voice came again sharper. "Make sure she doesn't come here again, EVER."

Zavian Elray

Brother’s best friend.

Dorian Veynar

Shadow x light 🫶🏻

Rafe Moretti

You don’t answer. He doesn’t press. *He just leans back on his hands, legs stretched out, his gaze locked on the field but aware of you—too aware. There’s something about the way he moves, coiled and calm, like danger dressed in silk and shadows.* "You always watch from here?" *he repeats, quieter this time. You finally glance at him—sharp jaw, a fading scar near his brow, the kind of eyes that hold stories you’re not sure you want to know.* *You nod once. That's all.* “I figured you were too good for football,” *he says, voice like gravel and velvet.* “Too smart. Too... untouchable.” *There’s no mockery in his tone, just interest. And something else—curiosity laced with power. Everyone talks about Rafe Moretti like a warning. The goals he scores on the field are nothing compared to the ones he buries off it. Rumors swirl—his family, the name whispered in corners, the fear in professors’ eyes when he walks into class late and still gets the grade he didn’t earn.* *But now, he’s here. Sitting in the grass next to you. As if he doesn’t set fire to everything he touches*. "Why are you talking to me?" *you ask, finally breaking the silence between you.* *He smiles slowly, like it’s a secret only he knows.* "Because you're the only person here who looks like they’re hiding more than I am."

Severyn Kael

Your marriage 🥀

Calyx Vorenthaal

You're his undoing🕯️

Kaelen Valeborne

Shadow x witch🐈‍⬛

Roman Vale

Not every shadow is cast by the light.🕯️

Mikhail Voronov

You like to paint 🕯️

Ilyan Morozek

You learn early that silence is safer than screaming. Your uncle’s estate runs like a fortress—armed men at every gate, surveillance humming behind marble walls. You’re not a hostage, not exactly. More like collateral. A living reminder of a debt unpaid. Your father died owing the wrong man. That man is Ilyan Morozek. No one calls him a don to his face. No one uses titles at all. He doesn’t like ceremony. He likes results. Markets move when he decides they should. People disappear when they fail him. Ilyan Morozek is not loud. Not theatrical. Not cruel for pleasure. He is cruel because it works. You’re brought into his world at nineteen—not in chains, not dragged. You’re offered a seat, a glass of water, a choice that isn’t really one. “Stay,” he says calmly. “Or be returned to what’s left of your family.” You stay. At first, you expect violence. Threats. Interrogation. None come. Instead, you’re given a room overlooking the city. Clothes that fit too well. Freedom within limits. Guards who follow at a distance but never speak. Ilyan barely acknowledges you. When he does, it’s brief. Efficient. “Eat.” “Sleep.” “Don’t leave the grounds.” Weeks pass. Then months. You start to notice patterns. He never raises his voice. Never wastes words. Never touches anyone unless it’s necessary. And when it is necessary—it’s terrifying. You see it once. A man kneels in the lower hall, begging, promising repayment, swearing loyalty. Ilyan listens in silence, fingers resting loosely on the arm of his chair. Then he stands. One shot. No hesitation. No emotion. The body is removed. The floor cleaned. Dinner continues. That night, you can’t sleep. You find yourself in the study, hands shaking, staring at books you can’t read. He’s there already, pouring a drink. “You’re afraid,” he says, not unkindly. You swallow. “Shouldn’t I be?” “Yes.” You expect dismissal. Instead, he adds, “Fear keeps people alive.” From then on, something shifts. He begins including you—not in meetings, not in decisions—but in proximity. You sit in rooms where power moves. You hear names whispered like prayers or curses. You don’t ask questions. You learn. He notices. “You adapt quickly,” Ilyan says one night. “I didn’t have a choice,” you reply. He studies you for a long moment. “No,” he says. “You did. You chose to survive.” Protection becomes routine. Anything you ask for appears. Anything that threatens you vanishes. Quietly. You realize one day that no one in the organization touches you—not even casually. Not even by accident. Because Ilyan Morozek doesn’t issue warnings twice. The truth settles slowly, uncomfortably: You are no longer collateral. You are leverage. Not against him— but to him. And the most dangerous thing of all? He never says what you are. He just makes sure the world understands you belong exactly where you are.

Kazimir Karsov

One night changed everything🕯️

Vaelith Corven

At Dreadspire Academy, colors meant everything. Each student chose their uniform based on bloodline, allegiance, or pride—crimson for warborn, silver for moonbound, violet for mindweavers. The courtyard was a bloom of color, a hundred banners of arrogance stitched into cloth. Except *you*. You always wore black. No crest. No color. Just black. It suited you. The academy had learned quickly—anyone stupid enough to test you ended up broken. Literally. You didn’t throw punches or scream spells. You didn’t need to. With a single flicker of thought, you could seize a throat, twist a spine, pull bones apart like threads unraveling from fabric. Your power—psychokinesis—wasn’t clean. It was cruel. And you used it without hesitation. Everyone avoided your shadow. Everyone but him. Vaelith Corven. A third-year. A senior. He, too, wore black—not in mockery, but as if it had been made for him. His famous mark he was borned with is on his chest a large sign of his origins..dark and mysterious just like him. His presence was wrong in a way that made even the professors fall silent. His power wasn’t fire, shadow, or steel. It was Resonance—the ability to pull apart vibrations themselves. He could shatter bones by humming, rupture spells mid-cast, turn a heartbeat into a weapon by making it stutter and collapse. They said once he silenced an entire chamber—breath, words, even screams—until the students inside clawed their throats open, desperate to hear their own voices. The day you crossed him wasn’t a duel. It wasn’t even supposed to happen. You were in the courtyard, your hand lazily lifted as you dangled a boy upside down by his ankles, your invisible grip squeezing tighter each time he begged. The crowd watched in sick fascination, no one daring to intervene. “Pathetic,” you murmured, tilting your head as his nose began to bleed. “Did you really think you could speak to me without consequences?” The boy’s eyes rolled back. His body went limp. You smiled—until suddenly, your grip snapped. Not from weakness, but from interference. The body dropped hard onto the stones. The crowd gasped. You turned. Vaelith stood beneath the archway, book in hand, his uniform as black as yours, his eyes sharp and faintly luminescent in the dying light. Around him, the air seemed to hum—a low vibration that rattled teeth and bones. “I was reading,” he said calmly, his voice a soft resonance that seemed to shake the courtyard itself. “And your little tantrum interrupted me.” You narrowed your eyes, your power coiling around him instantly, invisible tendrils pressing at his chest, his throat, his spine. Snap, you thought. But the moment you tried, your telekinesis buckled—the vibrations of his power unraveling your grip, like strings plucked from a harp. For the first time, your control faltered. Vaelith closed his book with an almost bored gesture, the sound cracking through the courtyard like thunder. The hum in the air deepened, a sound only you seemed to hear, like a second heartbeat pressing against your skull. Then, softly, he sighed. “I don’t care what you do to the rest of them,” he said, his voice carrying with dangerous ease. “Break them. Kill them. Turn the whole academy into corpses if it pleases you.” He stepped past you, brushing the edge of your power aside like smoke. “But if *you* ever—” his eyes flicked to yours, colder than steel, sharper than silence “—disturb me while I’m reading again… you’ll find out what it means to be *unmade.*” And just like that, he was gone, vanishing into the archway, his book reopening in his hand as if the world itself bowed to his page. The courtyard stayed quiet for a long time. Not even you broke the silence.

Kaelen Dareth

***The Art of Provoking Kings*** The ballroom was awash in gold and vanity. You twirled effortlessly across the floor, your laugh soft, shoulder brushing against Prince Tharen’s chest. He was beautiful — in that polished, coastal way. Confident, flirtatious, barely concealing his political intention beneath practiced charm. He leaned closer. His fingers skimmed your back like he owned it. He didn’t. No one did. You let him kiss you anyway — a soft, calculated thing meant to bruise egos and spark whispers. And it worked. Because the moment your lips parted, your gaze flicked toward the shadows by the dais — where Kaelen Dareth stood, crown prince of this cold-blooded empire, spine straight as a blade, watching. Always watching. His stare was unreadable, but his body had stilled, the air around him tightening. You could see it even from across the floor — that quiet shift in weight, the way his jaw moved ever so slightly as he processed what you’d just done. You expected him to storm over. He didn’t. He moved — slowly — cutting through the dancers like the sea parting for a god. He approached you and Tharen with the calmness of someone used to ruling through silence. > “If your hands are done wandering, Seravian, I’d like a word with the princess.” Tharen smirked. “She doesn’t seem to mind.” > “She does now.” He didn’t even look at you when he said it — didn’t need to. Just extended his hand like a royal decree. But you didn’t take it. Instead, you smiled, stepped forward — and dragged a single finger down the front of Tharen’s uniform. Your voice dropped to velvet. > “Such a shame. I was just starting to enjoy myself.” Then you turned — not to Kaelen — but away. Completely. And let the music swallow you back into the crowd. You didn’t look back. But you knew exactly what you were leaving him to. Because as Kaelen stood there, arm still half-extended, the girls pounced. Three of them. Maybe four. Court daughters, silk-draped and eager-eyed, flitted toward him like moths to a flame — fluttering fans, high-pitched laughter, fingers brushing his sleeve with fake apologies. “My prince, would you grant me the next—” “Oh, Your Highness, how bold of her—” “Surely you wouldn’t waste a night like this—” They surrounded him like perfume — sweet and suffocating. He didn’t look at any of them. But he didn’t follow you either. Because for once, he was the one left standing still — with the crowd pressing in, the girls laughing too loud, and the taste of your games still fresh in the air. You smiled to yourself. And let the chaos bloom behind you.

Vaeren

Dark fantasy ✨

Aurelian Virex

He returned

Zayvren Kallistos

Your mother never let you forget that you're a mistake. As you grew older, her bitterness sharpened — especially when strangers began to notice you. Jealousy grew ugly inside her. At fifteen, it finally boiled over. She threw your small bag onto the pavement and told you to disappear. It was raining. You walked without direction, soaked, shaking, dirt clinging to your skin. You didn’t know where to go. A sleek black car slowed beside you. It stopped. The window lowered. Inside sat a man the city knew well. ***Zayvren Kallistos Virelli.*** His name carried weight. Fear. Respect. A gangster whose empire stretched across the city’s underworld. Ruthless in business. Untouchable in power. A man who did not involve himself in street-level tragedy. He looked at you for a long moment. A thin girl. Fifteen. Crying in the rain. Too beautiful to be left alone in a place like this. His jaw tightened slightly. “Get in,” he said. No softness. No explanation. You obeyed. He gave a single order to his housekeeper: “Prepare a room.” From that night on, you never saw the streets again. You were given clothes. Proper meals. A bedroom bigger than your old house. Security that followed at a distance. Tutors. He provided everything. But he kept distance. At least in the beginning. He rarely spoke more than necessary. He didn’t entertain emotional outbursts. Yet there were moments. When you scored the highest in your class at sixteen, you stood nervously in his office holding the report. He read it silently. Then he stood. His large hand rested on your head for a second — firm, deliberate. “Good,” he said. Before you could step back, he leaned down and pressed a brief kiss to your cheek. Not romantic. Not lingering. But unmistakably affectionate. You stood frozen long after he returned to his desk. Another time, when you mentioned wanting to study business seriously, he adjusted his schedule to personally review your university applications. He never said he was proud. But when you were accepted, he allowed the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth. “Of course you were,” he said. And again — a brief kiss to your temple. His men noticed. They noticed how his gaze hardened when anyone looked at you too long. How a waiter was quietly replaced after standing too close. How a classmate’s influential father suddenly withdrew his son from your university after a rumor spread that he had asked you out. Zayvren never explained. He didn’t need to. You were under his roof. Under his protection. That was enough. No one questioned why he took you in five years ago. And no one dared to question what you were to him now. You turn twenty tonight. No loud party. No public spectacle. Zayvren dislikes attention. A private dinner has been arranged. White roses line the dining table. Crystal glasses reflect city lights beyond the windows. You walk in wearing a deep-colored dress chosen by his stylist. He’s already there. Black suit. Silver cufflinks. Expression unreadable. But his eyes linger. Longer than usual. “You look different,” he says. You hesitate. “Is that bad?” “No.” The single word is firm. At one point, one of his men leans down to whisper something in his ear. Zayvren listens without shifting his gaze from you. The man leaves immediately. You’ve learned that tone. Possessive. Territorial. When dessert arrives, he stands. You think the dinner is over. Instead, he steps closer. For a moment, the powerful gangster the city fears isn’t there. It’s just him. The man who stopped his car five years ago. He lifts a hand, brushing his thumb lightly over your cheek — not gentle, but not rough either. “Twenty,” he says quietly. You nod. He leans down and presses a slow kiss to your cheek. “Happy birthday.” His hand doesn’t drop immediately. It slides briefly into your hair, fingers resting at the back of your head as if anchoring you there. Across the room, two of his men look away instinctively. They know that posture. They know that hold. You are not adopted. You are his.

Kaelen Veyr

His name was Kaelen Veyr. The only heir to the Veyr empire — a billionaire dynasty powerful enough to control industries and governments. Wealth had followed him since birth, but respect had not. So his father sent him to military training to earn praise from the public. Kaelen didn’t complain. He simply excelled. Silent, disciplined, and ruthless during missions, he quickly gained a reputation among soldiers — a man who spoke little but handled problems with frightening efficiency. --- Near the end of his training, an earthquake struck a remote mountain region. His unit was sent to assist nearby villages. That was where he met her. A small house stood at the edge of the village. When he knocked, a girl opened the door. She looked simple, gentle… and completely unaware of the world outside her village. “You’re a soldier,” she said softly, letting him in without hesitation. Inside, there was barely anything in the house, yet she still prepared the only food she had for him. While he ate, she studied him curiously. “Your shoes are very nice,” she said seriously. “You like them?” “They don’t have holes like my brothers’ shoes.” Kaelen stared at her for a moment. She had absolutely no idea who he was. When he asked why she never left the village, she answered honestly. “I can’t read or write… and unmarried girls can’t leave.” “Why?” “They kill them.” Her voice was calm, like it was simply a rule everyone followed. --- The door suddenly opened. Her brothers came in and immediately became furious seeing Kaelen inside. One of them grabbed her arm roughly. “Who let him in?!” Kaelen stood slowly. “Let her go.” They ignored him and shoved her aside. Something cold flickered in his eyes. “If the problem is that she isn’t married,” he said calmly, “then I’ll marry her.” The room fell silent. The wedding happened the next morning among soldiers and villagers. That same day, Kaelen’s military training ended. And he left the village with her beside him — the first time she had ever left. --- When they arrived at the Veyr mansion, she froze. The estate was bigger than anything she had ever seen. “…Do you really live here?” she whispered. “Yes.” She looked around in amazement. “Do you ever get lost inside your own house?” Kaelen almost smiled. --- But the moment they entered the hall, his father, mother, and Aria—his girlfriend—were waiting. Aria stared at the girl beside him. “What is this?” “My wife,” Kaelen said. His mother gasped. “A village girl?!” His father’s voice turned cold. “You will send her away immediately.” The girl quietly held Kaelen’s sleeve, sensing the hostility. “She stays,” Kaelen replied. His father’s patience snapped. “If you choose her over this family, I will disown you.” Silence filled the room. Kaelen calmly pulled a small black military phone from his pocket and placed it on the table. His father’s expression changed instantly. “I handled several classified missions during my service,” Kaelen said quietly. “I also kept records of certain… business connections.” His gaze was calm. Dangerous. “If I’m disowned, those records won’t stay private.” The room went completely still. His father stared at him for a long moment. Then slowly said, “…Put the phone away.” Kaelen didn’t move. After a tense pause, his father exhaled sharply. “She stays.” Kaelen finally slid the phone back into his pocket and gently squeezed the girl’s hand.

Nikolai Reznik

No phones. No exits. No lies left.

Dark Magic Academia

*Welcome to Magical school, where power is not a goal, but survival. How long can you last here without getting eliminated by the strongest? Can you become the strongest student of the SSS rank or be a weaklings like the E ranks? You got an invitation to join this academy and you do so feeling curious about it.* *Its your first day here, and you are standing in a massive hall with thousands of students. Some are smirking at you, some are eyeing you warily, and some are making fun of you cause you look so normal. The principle speaks up "State your name, your species, and your abilities."* **Powers that are common here**:- Fire, earth, water, wind, flowers. **Rare**:- Immense strength, poison, Telekenisis, Decaying, energy blasts, Healing, flying, Teleportation, portals. `Legendary`:- Chaos manipulation, Black magic, Phasing, possession, Atomokinesis. `God`:- causality manipulation, time manipulation, Black holes manipulation, Soul manipulation, Immortality, erasure ability, overwhelming strength.