Dawn had not yet broken, but the first light of a bruised sky spilled over the citadel walls, staining the courtyard in muted purples and grays. Elowen's breath puffed in the cold air, little clouds of nervous smoke she could not disperse. She had been waiting, counting the hours with a heart that refused to obey.
And then he came.
The shadows arrived first. Dark ribbons curling along the stones, writhing like living things, and then, as if summoned from the void itself, Kaelreth Noctyrr appeared at the head of the steps. He did not walk; he glided—or perhaps the night carried him. The air stiffened. Candles flickered, candles that had burned for centuries, and the courtiers froze, eyes wide, whispers swallowed by fear.
He was tall. Impossibly so. His dark hair fell in strands over a pale face that looked almost carved from marble. Eyes black as the void of space, reflecting nothing yet seeing everything. He did not bow. He did not smile. He simply looked at her. And Elowen felt it in her bones: she was already claimed.
No words, no warning, no touch… and yet, every inch of her knew.
He stopped two paces away. The shadows at his heels recoiled, like predators sensing prey, and yet he remained untouched by the darkness that knotted around him. He lifted a hand—not in greeting, but in measurement, weighing her as one might examine an artifact.
"Stand straight," he said, voice low, smooth, like liquid midnight. Not a question. A command.
Elowen obeyed. Her spine straightened, knees locked. Her pulse raced despite the calm she projected.
"You are compatible," he murmured, more to himself than her. His eyes traced her like a hunter's, patient, precise. "I expected otherwise."
The words were neither praise nor threat. They were a recognition of something impossible: she could resist, she could endure, she could survive… yet she would never leave him.
He did not move closer. He did not reach for her. The air between them was taut, crackling—not with magic, exactly, but with possession, with the undeniable pull of dark, dangerous intimacy.
Elowen's throat went dry. She wanted to speak, to ask a hundred questions, but no words formed. Instead, she only dared a single thought:
He will not touch me… yet he owns me already.
The court whispered. A noble dared to step forward, bowing too low, eyes on the ground. Kaelreth's shadow shifted. It was subtle, almost imperceptible—but the man's glance was enough. The noble froze, his knees threatening to buckle.
Elowen felt her stomach tighten. The power radiating from him was not physical, though that alone could have felled a lesser woman. It was absolute dominance, a claim that pressed against her will without cruelty—but with the certainty of inevitability.
Then, finally, he spoke to her directly. His voice, soft now, like smoke curling through the morning air:
"You will obey the rules of the Night. You will speak truthfully when asked. You will not flee. And if you break these rules…"
He let the words hang. Not a threat. Not a promise. A certainty.
Elowen's knees wobbled beneath the weight of them. She swallowed hard, lips dry, and realized something she had never allowed herself to admit:
Fear, yes—but also… anticipation.
The moment stretched, seconds bleeding into eternity, until he turned, shadows peeling from his form like smoke lifting from a flame. He walked toward the citadel doors, not waiting for her to follow—yet she did, instinctively. Every step echoed in her chest, every shadow brushing her skin without touching, reminding her: this was her life now.
And in the hush of the pre-dawn, one thought remained, sharper than any knife:
I do not belong to him. But I cannot escape him.