The doorknob twitched.
Her breath caught like glass splintering inside her chest.
Then came the creak—slow, deliberate—as the door edged open into the room she had no right to be in. The silence became something living, pressing against her skin, crawling into her throat. Shadows leapt and curled across the walls, stretching long and deep, as if they too feared what was coming.
And then he entered.
Tall. Armored. A god of war wrapped in blood and shadow.
His presence alone bent the room. As if the walls remembered what he'd done.
His broad frame filled the doorway, moonlight slicing through the glass behind him, catching on the dark metal of his chestplate. The sharp, metallic scent of blood and steel followed him in, clinging to him like a second skin. Bits of dried crimson flaked from his gauntlets as he moved, silent and slow—the confession of a man who had just come from killing and thought nothing of it.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
The sheer weight of him, the unrelenting pull of his silence, made the air thin.
In the dark, he looked more monstrous than any story she'd ever been told. More terrible. More beautiful. A creature born of blood and prophecy and broken thrones.
Lightning split the sky outside—sharp, electric, sudden. It scorched through the stained glass, throwing silver light into the room like a blade. And in that brutal, fleeting burn—
She saw his face.
The pale grey eyes. Cold and colorless as winter lightning. The cursed eyes that marked him since the day he drew breath. The storm that shattered his cradle. They burned through the dark like judgment.
Kazimir de Veyron.
The Butcher of Valeria.
The man who had burned her kingdom to ash.
The man who made her an orphan.
Before he could turn, before that storm-lit gaze could sweep the room, she moved—bare feet sliding soundlessly across the cold stone. Her pulse pounded like war drums in her ears. She slipped behind the heavy velvet curtain near the tall window, swallowed by its folds. The fabric brushed her face, thick with age and dust, smelling of old rain and darker things.
She didn't breathe.
She couldn't.
Not out of fear of him.
But of what would happen if he saw her like this.
The raven wig had fallen. It lay near the table—dark and gleaming in a pool of moonlight. Damning. Her only mask, the final piece of her illusion.
Gone.
Her real face was bare. Her hair clung to her damp skin, and her eyes—
Crimson.
Glowing faintly, no longer hidden.
A death sentence.
If he saw her now, with those cursed eyes, that heritage in her veins—
There would be no mercy.
No hesitation.
No veil to hide behind.
Just death.
And she wasn't ready to die.
Not yet.
Not before making him bleed for everything he had taken from her.
The full moon hung high above the palace like a silver god, glaring through the tall windows behind her. It should've empowered her, made her strong.
But it didn't.
The witches had warned her.
Until her power fully awakened, the full moon—the great unmasker—would only drain her. A cruel irony. Her Veyron blood hummed under her skin, called for war, for vengeance… but the magic wasn't hers yet. It stirred and hissed and slept again.
Kazimir, however, was not powerless.
He moved through the room like it belonged to him—like the darkness bowed to him.
His armor groaned softly as he shed it piece by piece, beginning with his helmet. The hiss of release echoed in the silence. He lifted it off with a deliberate ease, letting it rest on the vanity's edge.
And the sight stole her breath all over again.
He was a weapon made flesh.
Unfair.
Beautiful in the way fire is beautiful—right before it consumes everything.
His face was carved and cold, like something forged in the ashes of a battlefield. Sharp cheekbones. Pale lips. Eyes that didn't blink.
And beneath the neck of his armor, near the collarbone—she saw them.
The marks.
Dark red, bordering black.
Ancient sigils burned into skin. Cursed. Living.
Born the night the Crimson Dragon spirit tore through his soul and stole his innocence.
They pulsed with the full moon's light, reacting like they were alive.
She trembled behind the curtain, frozen by more than fear.
By rage.
By memory.
By the truth of what this man had done.
He stepped toward the window.
Toward her.
She pressed herself deeper into the curtain, wishing she could melt into the wall. Her heart beat so loudly it was a miracle he couldn't hear it.
He paused.
Tilted his head.
Sniffed the air.
Her stomach dropped.
Ghost orchid.
Just one drop. The witches had told her it would anchor her to her body if the magic inside rebelled. She'd dabbed it behind her ear hours ago and forgotten.
It was faint. But unmistakable.
Ghost orchid only bloomed in the southern cliffs of Ildarune.
Witchland.
Forbidden.
He took another step toward the curtain.
No.
No, no, no—
His hand rose.
Leather-clad fingers extended, slow and deliberate.
Reaching.
A breath away.
She could see his scars now. Fine lines across his knuckles. Old burns along his wrist. The blood there was fresher—still red around the edges.
And in that terrible moment—
She thought of grabbing his wrist.
Driving a blade straight into his ribs.
Ending him.
She could.
He was right there.
But she didn't.
Because her body betrayed her.
Her knees trembled.
Her power didn't answer.
Her hatred burned—but her strength was hollow tonight.
And because…
She remembered.
The screams.
The fire.
The snow, soaked red.
She remembered Avermort burning—her home, her blood, her history—devoured by Kazimir's army.
She remembered her mother's body half-buried beneath a broken arch.
Her brother's hand slipping from hers in the smoke, eyes wide and scared.
She remembered her cousin's throat cut by Kazimir himself. Clean. Efficient.
She remembered the little boy who begged for help. Kazimir silenced him with a dagger, as if his cries were noise, nothing more.
And his face—
Unmoved.
Emotionless.
She'd watched from the ruins of the chapel. Ten years old. Hiding in the soot. Teeth clenched. Hands shaking.
And he had walked away, fire painting the sky behind him.
He hadn't looked back.
That night, he destroyed her kingdom.
Her family.
Her world.
And now…
He stood just a breath away.
Reaching.
His boots echoed softly as he stepped away from the vanity. One slow step. Then another.
She didn't move.
Couldn't.
The curtain barely fluttered around her, heavy as fate. Her breath sat sharp in her throat, the taste of iron and ghost orchid and grief coiled on her tongue. Her palms were slick against the wall. Her pulse was no longer a beat, but a scream.
He was coming closer.
Not hurried.
Not hunting.
As if he already knew exactly where she was.
As if he had known all along.
Each step sounded louder than the last, and the world narrowed to the sound of him. The weight of him. The ruin she wore in her chest took his shape.
She dared not blink.
He was close enough now that she could feel his heat bleeding through the curtain, burning like the fires that devoured her home.
Closer.
The curtain brushed slightly with the air of his movement. His shadow swallowed hers.
Then—
And as his fingers brushed the edge of the curtain—
She almost lunged.
Almost.
But her hand stayed still.
Her fury vibrated through her limbs. Her tears didn't fall, but they burned in her eyes.
He lowered his hand.
Turned.
Walked back toward the table.
Her body gave out the moment he moved away. Just a little. Her back hit the window. She bit her lip to keep from making a sound.
He was at the vanity now.
She watched from the narrow gap in the curtain as he scanned the surface.
And then—
He saw it.
The wig.
He stared.
Still.
Then slowly crouched and picked it up.
Held it in both hands like something dead.
His expression didn't change.
But his eyes darkened.
And then—
His voice cut through the silence like a blade to the throat.
"Who's here?"
He didn't shout. Didn't demand.Just asked.
Cold. Quiet. Lethal.She said nothing.Couldn't.Her body had gone still.
But her breath…
He could hear it now.
He could feel her presence. The disruption in the air. The heartbeat not his own.
He turned again.
Walked toward the curtain.
No rush.
No fear.Like a predator that already knew the outcome.She didn't know what he'd do.
Didn't know if he'd recognize her.
Didn't know if she would survive.
But she knew—
There would be no hiding after this.
No veil.
Just her, him, and the ghosts of revenge and hatred they both carried.