"I told you, I'm not the Saintess you've been searching for!" Elira shouted as they stepped back inside the chapel, her voice echoing off the stone walls.
Lucan's expression twisted with fury. He tossed her aside with a single motion, and she stumbled to the floor, her palms scraping against the cold, unforgiving stone.
"I'm just an unemployed girl living outside of this fantasy book!" she cried, breathless. "Yes! This is only a story—a book I was about to read! And you—you're the main character! The villain!"
"Shut up!" he roared, eyes blazing like twin infernos. "Fantasy book? Story? Me, a character? Do you think I've lost my mind enough to believe that nonsense?! I'd become a king—a tyrant king—if I were so easily swayed by words!"
He stepped closer, boots striking the floor with deliberate menace, his voice trembling with rage.
"From the moment you arrived, you've been spouting madness! A world beyond this one? A life outside the prophecy? You appeared at the sacred lake—the very lake spoken of in legend! The lake where the Saintess is destined to rise!"
Elira froze, breath caught in her throat. The chapel's air grew heavy, thick with tension.
But Lucan wasn't finished.
"You may deny it. You may scream and curse and call this a dream," he growled, stepping even closer, "but you came from that lake. And that lake only gives birth to one thing—destiny."
His eyes burned with a fire that didn't flicker—it consumed. It wasn't just a threat. It was a promise.
She could feel it in the air: one wrong word, and he might strike.
Then his voice dropped, colder than steel.
"I'm going to kill you before that destiny happens."
And in that moment, Elira saw him clearly.
Not just a cold warrior. Not just a king.
A tyrant. A merciless tyrant.
Something inside her snapped.
Her legs cramped beneath her, refusing to move. She stumbled back, breath shallow, heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She had faced strange forests, enchanted ropes, cryptic villagers.
But this?
This was the first time she truly feared for her life.
Lucan's eyes held no mercy. No hesitation. He wasn't bluffing. He wasn't posturing.
He was ready.
And Elira, for all her defiance, was suddenly very aware of how fragile she was in this world.
She didn't speak.
She couldn't.
Because one wrong word might be her last.
Her legs trembled, but she forced herself to stand.
She couldn't show weakness. Not now. Not in front of him.
Lucan's grip on the rope was firm, his blade never far from reach. The threat hung in the air like smoke—I'm going to kill you before that destiny happens.
Her throat was dry. Her heart pounded. But she swallowed the panic and lifted her chin.
"Fine," she said, voice steadier than she felt. "If I'm the Saintess, then keep me close. Watch me. Study me. Maybe you'll find out I'm just a disappointment."
Lucan narrowed his eyes. "You think I'll let you manipulate me with false humility?"
"I think," Elira said carefully, "you want control. And I'm giving it to you. For now."
He stared at her for a long moment, as if weighing her soul.
Then, without a word, he turned his back and walked toward the far end of the chapel, his footsteps echoing like thunder against the cold stone floor.
Elira watched him, baffled, uncertain if her words had reached him at all. Her heart still raced, her body tense, but something in his silence felt… different.
Then, without warning, Lucan reached up and removed his helmet.
It was the first time she'd seen him without it.
Dark-brown hair spilled over his nape, catching the dim candlelight like strands of moonlight. It shimmered with an unnatural glow—soft yet commanding, like something pulled from legend.
And then she saw his face.
Sharp cheekbones, marked by a long scar that only emphasized the brutal elegance of his features. A strong, unforgiving jaw. His skin was pale—almost luminous—and his eyes, those piercing reddish eyes, were no longer hidden behind steel. They burned with intensity, with fury, and with something deeper she couldn't name.
He looked like a king carved from ice and fire.
Beautiful.
Terrifying.
Utterly untouchable.
Elira's breath caught. Her fear vanished in an instant.
This wasn't just a tyrant.
This was the face of a man shaped by prophecy, by war, by centuries of blood and silence.
And for the first time, she understood why the villagers feared him.
Why the forest bowed to him.
Why the world whispered his name like a warning.
Lucan.
The king who might kill her.
Elira whispered, as soft as breath, careful not to let Lucan hear.
"Is this the tyrant in the story I was about to read?" Her voice trembled, not with fear this time—but with awe. "He's… so handsome."
She stared at his back, at the dark-brown hair cascading like moonlight, at the way his shoulders held the weight of a kingdom and a curse. The fire in his eyes moments ago had threatened to consume her, yet now, in silence, he looked like something carved from myth—regal, dangerous, and devastatingly beautiful.
Her heart betrayed her, skipping once.
How could someone so cruel look so divine?
But she shook the thought away, burying it deep.
This was the man who had just promised to kill her.
And no matter how striking his face was, Elira knew better than to fall for the beauty of a blade.
Lucan paused.
He felt it—her gaze, lingering like a whisper against his back. Not the kind born of fear, but something else. Something curious. Something... soft.
Slowly, he turned.
Elira froze.
His reddish eyes locked onto hers, sharp and unblinking. The chapel's dim light caught the edges of his face-those sculpted cheekbones, the cold beauty of his expression, the silver-white hair cascading like frost.
He had heard her.
Or maybe he hadn't.
But he knew.
Elira's breath hitched. She tried to look away, but couldn't. His presence held her like gravity.
Lucan stepped forward, slow and deliberate.
"Is that admiration I see in your eyes?" he asked, voice low, dangerous.
Elira swallowed hard. "No. Just... surprise. You took off your steel helmet for the first time, that's it."
He tilted his head, studying her like a puzzle he hadn't decided whether to solve or shatter.
"Careful," he said. "Flattery doesn't soften blades."
Then he turned again, walking into the shadows of the chapel, leaving Elira with her heart thudding and her thoughts spinning.
She had seen his face.
And now he had seen hers.
Elira shook off the admiration she'd felt just moments ago.
The awe. The breathless whisper. The quiet thought that he was handsome.
It vanished the instant Lucan spoke those words in her head.
"I'm going to kill you before that destiny happens."
His voice had been cold, final—like a blade pressed to her throat. And no amount of silver hair or sculpted beauty could soften that truth.
She clenched her fists, forcing her heart to steady.
What was I thinking? she scolded herself. This isn't a story I can read and close. This is real. And he's dangerous.
Lucan stood at the far end of the chapel, his back turned once more, but the air between them still crackled with tension.
Elira lowered her gaze, masking her thoughts behind silence.
She couldn't afford to admire him.
Not when he might be the one to end her.
Lucan stirred at the sudden crowing of a chicken nearby, the sound sharp and jarring in the stillness of the chapel.
His eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the dim light filtering through the cracked stained glass. The air was cool, heavy with the scent of old stone and melted wax.
He scanned the room.
There she was—Elira—curled up near the altar, sleeping peacefully. Her breathing was soft, steady. She hadn't escaped.
Good.
He narrowed his eyes, puzzled.
How did I sleep so soundly?
This was the first time in years that sleep had come without torment. No nightmares clawing at his mind. No visions of fire and blood. No voice whispering commands in the dark.
And ever since they entered Devil's Claw Forest, the voice within him—the one that had haunted him since childhood—had gone silent.
No pain.
No orders.
No madness.
Lucan sat up slowly, his cloak rustling against the cold stone floor. He looked down at his hands, half-expecting them to tremble.
They didn't.
The silence was unnerving. But it was also… peaceful.
His gaze drifted back to Elira.
She was still asleep, her cheek pressed against her arm, strands of golden hair spilling across her face like sunlight on snow. Even in rest, she looked out of place in this world—like something borrowed from another story. Something not meant to be here.
Lucan stood and watched her for a moment longer, his expression unreadable.
Then he turned toward the chapel doors, his boots echoing softly with each step.
Lucan strode through the village, his steps firm and unrelenting. Dawn had barely broken, and the houses still slept beneath a blanket of mist. No dogs barked. No doors creaked. The silence was thick—almost reverent, as if the world itself held its breath.
He climbed the mountain path as if it were etched into his bones. Each step stirred memories he had long buried—pitiful, horrendous fragments of a childhood he had tried to erase.
From the ridge above, a wrecked little house came into view. Its roof sagged, walls splintered, and vines crept through the broken windows like fingers reclaiming what time had forgotten.
Memories flooded his mind.
A boy—thin, bruised, barely eleven—crouched in the corner of that house. His eyes hollow, his body trembling. A child who had seen too much, endured too much. He had fought to survive, never asking for help. No one dared offer it.
Except her.
In that house, someone had shown him kindness. Love.
And he had become her end.
Now, only memories remained.
Lucan clenched his fist until his palm bled, the pain grounding him in the present.
Someone has to become a sacrifice in order for you to become a ruler.
The voice echoed inside him—not as command, but as memory. Fresh. Vivid. Unforgiving.
He closed his eyes tightly, jaw clenched.
The forest was quiet, but his soul was not.
He stepped forward, boots crunching against the gravel, and entered the ruins.
Inside, the air was stale. Dust hung like ghosts in the morning light. A broken chair lay on its side. A faded ribbon still clung to the edge of the fireplace.
Lucan knelt beside it, fingers brushing the fabric.
It was hers.
The woman who had saved him.
The woman he couldn't save.
He bowed his head, and the memories came like lightning—sharp, fast, and merciless.
---
"You have to kill them…"
"You have to hunt the people who look down on you…"
"You must not leave any of them alive…"
The voice echoed through the mind of the young boy.
He stared into the void, his body numb, his breath shallow. The pain had subsided, but the voice remained—whispering, twisting, controlling.
"These people are worthless," it hissed. "You need to move as we agreed. Someone has to become a sacrifice in order for you to become a ruler."
"I'll be with you through thick and thin," it promised. "I'll lead you to your very desire."
The boy—Lucan—was no longer himself.
He was submerged.
Controlled.
He took the hidden dagger from beneath the floorboards, its blade cold and eager in his trembling grip. Step by step, he approached them—her son, the infant cradled in his arms, and her husband.
And he struck.
The woman—gentle, warm, barely in her thirties—rushed to stop him. She begged. Pleaded. Called his name with a voice full of desperation.
But he didn't listen.
He couldn't.
The voice inside him was louder than her love.
And when she fell, her blood staining the ribbon she always wore, the silence returned.
Lucan tightened his grip on the fabric now, the faded ribbon trembling in his hand.
His breath was ragged.
His eyes burned.
Her final words still haunted him, echoing in his mind like a living nightmare.
"I… forgave you… I… understand you…"
He trembled, the memory slicing deeper than any blade.
"I didn't choose this," he whispered.
*******
The morning sun had barely touched the rooftops when the village bell rang—a sound not of celebration, but of summons.
The villagers gathered in the square, drawn by the tension in the air. No one spoke. No one dared.
Elira stood tied to a tree, far from where Lucan was. She watched in horror as he dragged the wounded boy and his family into the center of the square.
So this was the reason he yanked me from sleep.
Lucan stood tall, towering in his armor, dark-brown hair gleaming like a blade under the light. His sword rested against his shoulder-casual, yet deadly.
Beside him knelt the boy who had helped Elira escape. His wrists were bound, his face bruised and bloodied. Behind him, his mother and younger sister clung to each other, trembling.
Lucan's voice rang out, cold and clear.
"This boy," he declared, "chose betrayal. He aided the Saintess in her escape-an act punishable by death."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. The boy lifted his head, defiant even now.
"She's not a threat!" he shouted. "She's lost. She's scared. She's not what you think!"
Lucan didn't flinch.
"I do not think," he said. "I know. And I do not tolerate defiance."
He turned to the villagers, his gaze sweeping over them like a storm.
"Let this be a lesson," he said, his voice cold and commanding. "I came here seeking only shelter… but someone dared to aid my prisoner."
He stepped forward, eyes burning with fury.
"I am not a ruler of mercy. I am a king forged in war. If any of you dare to help her again—if any of you question my command—you will not only die, but your bloodline will be erased."
He raised his sword, the steel catching the morning light like a blade of judgment.
The boy's mother screamed.
Elira, tied and helpless beside the tree, watched in horror. Her nails dug into the bark, her breath caught in her throat.
This is who he is, she thought. This is the tyrant the book warned about.
Lucan's blade hovered in the air.
And the village held its breath.
"No!" Elira screamed, her voice slicing through the heavy silence like a blade.
Heads turned. Even Lucan paused, his sword still raised.
Elira thrashed against the rope binding her to the tree, her wrists burning, her body trembling with fury and fear.
"Don't do this!" she cried. "They don't deserve to die!"
Lucan slowly turned to face her, his dark-brown hair catching the morning light, his expression unreadable. He was ethereally beautiful—almost otherworldly—but his presence told a different story: cold, commanding, and dangerous.
"You speak of mercy," he said, voice low and sharp. "Yet you forget-this is the consequence of your arrival."
Elira's breath came in ragged bursts. "Then punish me! Not them! I asked him to help me!"
Lucan's eyes narrowed. "You think I haven't already?"
He stepped toward the boy, sword still gleaming, the villagers frozen in dread.
She feared him—but she couldn't let innocent people die because of her own desire to escape.
Elira pulled harder against the rope, its faint magical glow resisting her every movement.
Please, she thought. Please, someone stop this. Or let me stop it.
But the rope held firm.
And Lucan's blade began to descend.
"Stop!" Elira shouted, her voice cracking with urgency. Then, desperate, she cried out, "I'll do whatever you want!"
Lucan froze mid-swing, his blade inches from the boy's neck.
The square fell silent.
Elira's breath came in gasps, her chest heaving. "Just... whatever you want. I'll do it. Without asking. Without complaining."
Lucan turned slowly, his silver eyes locking onto hers.
The villagers stared, stunned. The boy's mother sobbed quietly, clutching her children.
Elira felt the weight of her own words settle like chains around her shoulders.
What the hell am I talking about? she thought, panic rising. I just offered myself to a tyrant. I just gave up everything.
But she couldn't take it back.
Not with lives hanging in the balance.
Lucan stepped toward her, his sword lowering.
"You'll obey me?" he asked, voice low, dangerous.
Elira nodded, her throat tight. "If it means they live... yes."
He studied her for a long moment, then turned to the boy.
"Then I spare them," he said. "For now."
Then he turned to face Elira once more.
"You've made a vow, Saintess," he said, voice low and resolute. "And I intend to collect."
Elira, still catching her breath, blinked—her gaze locking onto his eyes.
They were no longer the burning red she had feared.
They were blue.
Clear. Piercing. Like ice thawing under morning light.
Something had changed.