In a world governed by magic and bloodline oaths, Princess Ruria was born beneath a fortunate star.
Her kingdom, Edelweiss, was a land untouched by tragedy. Its rivers sang instead of flooding, its soil yielded grain instead of graves, and its people smiled freely—unafraid of soldiers' boots or mourning bells. Ruria grew surrounded by warmth: a mother whose voice softened every room, a father whose rule was firm yet gentle, and citizens who loved their princess not as a symbol, but as a girl who listened.
She knew nothing of hunger.
Nothing of chains.
Nothing of fear.
And because of that, she was unprepared for the name that would one day shatter her world.
Vaelor Noctyrr.
The Emperor of the West.
The Calamity Crowned in Flesh.
The Sovereign of a Dead Empire.
Long ago, Vaelor had been merely the Fifth Prince of the western kingdom of Noctyrr, a position so low it was almost decorative. He was overlooked, uncelebrated—yet fate had been watching him closely.
When Noctyrr fell, it did not fall to conquest or rebellion.
It was erased.
Cities burned until the land itself turned black. Noble blood and common blood flowed together into the same gutters. Knights died screaming beside children. By dawn, there was nothing left.
Nothing—except Vaelor.
From the ashes of a kingdom with no survivors, he rose as its sole emperor. An emperor with no throne, no people, no banners flying behind him. Only wrath.
White hair, long and untainted, as though fire itself had refused to touch him.
Crimson eyes that reflected slaughter like polished mirrors.
A tall, flawless form that looked sculpted by the gods—only to mock them.
They called him beautiful.
They called him monstrous.
They were both correct.
With no one left to protect, Vaelor turned the world into his enemy. His wars were not fought for territory alone, but for silence—cities reduced to ruins, nations kneeling before they could even raise an army. Even the Demon Lord, an ancient terror feared for centuries, was forced into alliance with humanity and the other races.
Because Vaelor was worse.
He was not chaos.
He was intention.
And one winter morning, that intention reached Edelweiss.
The declaration of war arrived without insult or explanation—only a single seal pressed in black wax. Panic seized the kingdom. Ministers argued until their voices broke. Generals spoke of resistance they did not believe in. Priests prayed to gods who did not answer.
And in the end, the king made a choice born of despair.
He offered his daughter.
Princess Ruria would be given to the Emperor as tribute—his bride, his possession, his mercy.
In return, Edelweiss would live.
When the decision was spoken aloud, Ruria did not scream. She did not faint. She simply felt something cold settle deep in her chest, like a blade resting against her heart.
She knew who Vaelor Noctyrr was.
Everyone did.
She had grown up hearing his name whispered like a curse. Mothers frightened children into obedience with stories of the White Emperor. Merchants crossed themselves before traveling west. Entire maps were redrawn to avoid his borders.
Yet she had never truly imagined his face.
Until the day he came to claim her.
The sky darkened as though mourning in advance. Clouds churned unnaturally, shadows stretching long across the palace gates. The air itself felt heavy, oppressive—each breath an act of courage.
At the entrance of the kingdom, the king stood waiting.
His hand clutched Ruria's so tightly it hurt.
He was shaking.
This man who had once lifted her onto his shoulders, who had ruled with confidence and pride, now looked smaller—broken by the weight of what he was about to do.
When Vaelor arrived, there were no trumpets.
No banners.
No army.
He came alone.
And yet, the ground seemed to recoil beneath his steps.
The king dropped to his knees, crown clattering against stone as he bowed so deeply his forehead touched the earth.
"Y-your Imperial Majesty," he stammered, voice cracking beyond repair. "P-please… please accept my daughter. Spare my kingdom. I beg you."
With trembling hands, he placed Ruria's pale fingers into Vaelor's gloved grasp.
The moment their skin touched, she froze.
Slowly—hesitantly—Ruria lifted her gaze.
He was beautiful.
Unfairly so.
His white hair fell loose over dark armor etched with symbols she did not recognize. His red eyes were calm, unreadable—not cruel, not kind. Simply empty, like the aftermath of a storm that had already destroyed everything worth destroying.
There was no malice in his expression.
Which terrified her far more than rage ever could.
Vaelor looked down at her as though she were not a princess… but a fragile thing offered to a god who no longer believed in mercy.
Her heart pounded violently, fear flooding every vein.
And yet—
Somewhere beneath that fear, something else stirred.
Curiosity.
And thus, with one silent exchange of glances, the fate of a sheltered princess and a world-feared emperor became entwined.
Not as savior and sacrifice.
But as two souls standing at the edge of something far darker—and far more dangerous—than war.