[Lior's POV—A Dark Day in My Life—The Night of the Full Moon]
SLAM.
The sound cracked through the corridor like a gunshot.
I ran.
Barefoot, breathless, and still tangled in a nightgown far too thin for the cold stone beneath my feet. The palace was asleep—or pretending to be—its halls drowned in darkness so thick it felt alive, watching me stumble through it.
My lungs burned.
Huff—huff.
I must have looked deranged, sprinting through the halls like I had seen a ghost, and that wasn't entirely wrong, because I wasn't being chased by something dead.
I was being hunted by something very much alive.
Something worse.
I glanced over my shoulder, heart hammering, searching desperately for a place to hide—anywhere—but the corridor stretched on endlessly, merciless and bare.
Then—
TAP. TAP. TAP.
I heard the footsteps. Slow, measured, and unhurried. They weren't chasing me; they were following, certain I would run out of places to go.
Panic clawed its way up my throat.
I turned sharply toward the exit at the end of the hall, the massive iron doors just within reach. Freedom—if such a thing still existed for me—was only a few steps away.
I pushed harder.
Almost there—very close to freedom—WHOOSH.
A single hand closed around my arm, and my world tilted.
My feet left the ground, my breath tearing from my chest as I was yanked backward like I weighed nothing at all. My legs dangled uselessly in the air, and I just... trembled, fingers curling instinctively, a broken sound caught between my teeth.
I didn't turn around because I didn't need to.
"You cannot flee from me, little one," a husky voice murmured against my ear, low and intimate—terrifying in its calm. "Your fate was sealed the night your lips touched mine."
My blood ran cold; he didn't let me touch the floor. Instead, he pulled me into him, iron-strong arms forcing me to face him, and there he was.
The Monster of the North.
Dark, wavy hair falling carelessly over sharp features carved by cruelty and restraint. Silver eyes—cold, obsessive, inhumanly focused—locked onto mine like I was prey that had already been claimed.
He smiled, not kindly and definitely not gently.
Amused.
"Now," he murmured, his voice low with unhurried possession, "heed me well—your life belongs to me."
My throat tightened. I gulped, my body shaking—not just from terror, but from the truth settling deep in my bones.
Because I know no one was coming.
I know, no one would protect me. If I disappeared tonight, the world would simply… continue. Because I was just a second son, a spare one. A name that could be erased without consequence.
I knew this, and yet—it still hurt.
So… who was this man?
And more importantly…how had I ended up in his arms, trembling beneath a full moon, hunted like something precious and doomed?
Well...to answer that, we have to go back five nights.
Back to the masquerade, back to the kiss, and back to the cursed night that didn't just break my heart but flipped my entire destiny on its head.
***
So who was I, exactly?
I am Lior Valen, second son of Viscount Edric Valen—a title that sounds important until you understand what it actually means. I am the spare. The excess. The kind of child families present proudly at gatherings and quietly forget when inheritance is discussed.
But before I was Lior Valen, I was someone else.
A man who lived in a modern world.
I don't remember my old name. I don't remember which country I was born in, or what my apartment looked like, or what I did for a living. Those details faded somewhere between death and rebirth. What remained was simpler—and heavier.
I remember that I loved a man, and in that world, no one had tried to kill me for it.
I realized this again during my coming-of-age ceremony in this life—standing in ceremonial robes, surrounded by polite applause and hollow blessings. It hit me then, sharp and undeniable.
Nothing had changed.
Even reborn, even renamed, even trapped in silk and tradition—I still liked men. The difference was that this world demanded silence.
Unfortunately, I have never been particularly good at silence when drunk.
Which is how, one evening, with wine warming my veins and reason dulled just enough to be dangerous, I let it slip to Caelan Arwyn—the Count's son, golden-haired, well-loved, and entirely wrong for me.
The heir of Count Tharion Arwyn.
My secret fell from my lips like a confession I hadn't meant to make. He listened in silence, head tilted slightly, eyes unreadable. Then he smiled—not startled, not offended.
Intrigued.
"Then," he said softly, "perhaps you should allow me the honor of courting you."
The words were careful. Polished. Proper, and I—fool that I was—believed them. I thought I had found love in my closest friend.
I was wrong.
Caelan did not recoil. He did not report me. He simply smiled, and that smile should have warned me that I was stepping into a mistake tailored precisely for someone like me.
***
[Five Days Before Everything Went Wrong—Imperial Palace—Masquerade Ball]
The masquerade ball was hosted by the Imperials themselves, which meant excess masquerading as refinement.
Marble floors gleamed to a perilous shine. Chandeliers hung heavy with crystal and centuries of expectation. Silk brushed against silk, perfume layered over perfume, until the air itself felt indulgent—stifling.
Everyone wore masks; the nobility liked to believe anonymity absolved them of consequence.
It did not.
I adjusted my own mask—silver-edged, simple, intentionally forgettable—and surveyed the hall. Laughter rang too freely. Goblets were refilled too often. Somewhere to my left, a string quartet played something bright enough to feel ominous.
"Walk properly," The voice came from my side, clipped and cold.
My father—Viscount Edric Valen—did not look at me as he spoke. "Remember yourself. You represent this house, whether you are worthy of the honor or not."
I lowered my gaze. "Yes, Father."
He finally turned, eyes sharp as a blade's edge.
"Do not embarrass me tonight," he said. Then, after a pause deliberate enough to wound, "If you do, you will be confined for ten nights. No exceptions."
My fingers curled slowly at my sides, "I understand."
Satisfied—or perhaps simply finished—he moved ahead, muttering just loud enough for me to hear, "Useless."
It should have stung, but it didn't.
Some wounds stop bleeding after they've been reopened too many times.
What mattered instead was—
"Lior." The voice behind me was warm. Familiar.
I turned.
Caelan Arwyn stood there, immaculate as ever, mask pushed just high enough to reveal his smile. He inclined his head slightly, the gesture practiced and charming.
"I was beginning to think you would not attend," he said. "The evening would have been poorer for it."
I felt heat rise to my face. "I—thank you. You are too kind."
His gaze lingered, deliberate, and he whispered, "On the contrary, my beloved, you look… remarkable tonight."
Before I could reply, a hand slipped around his arm.
Firm and Possessive.
"What is this?" The voice was cool, edged with authority.
I looked up.
Silver hair. Green eyes. Familiar features sharpened by confidence and inheritance.
Elara Valen.
My elder sister, the firstborn and the heir of House Valen. She regarded me briefly, her expression unreadable, before returning her attention to Caelan.
"You disappeared," she said, fingers tightening around his sleeve. "I was looking for you."
Caelan did not remove her hand. Instead, he smiled at her—a smile effortless and assured—as he said smoothly, "My apologies, Lady Elara, I was momentarily detained."
Her gaze flicked to me then, sharp and assessing.
"I see."
There was no greeting. No acknowledgment beyond that single word.
And in that moment—standing between the heir of House Arwyn and the heir of House Valen—I understood something with terrible clarity.
Whatever I thought Caelan and I shared… It had never been real, and I was about to find out very soon.
"Come," Elara said, her tone leaving no room for refusal. She looped her arm through Caelan's with practiced ease and began to walk.
I followed.
Silently.
The masquerade unfolded as all imperial spectacles did—with calculated extravagance. Music swelled beneath the vaulted ceilings, violins and harps weaving together until the air itself seemed to vibrate. Nobles laughed behind painted masks, voices low and sharp, trading gossip as readily as they traded glances. Wine flowed freely. Dances began between strangers who would pretend not to remember each other by morning.
And I?
I stood at the edge of it all, tucked neatly into a shadowed corner—present, yet conveniently forgettable.
Just as I was meant to be.
The music swirled, laughter rose—and then a whisper cut through it.
"Did you hear?"
My attention sharpened immediately.
"I heard the Grand Duke Morvael is present tonight."
My fingers stilled around my goblet.
A soft, nervous laugh followed. "You jest."
"I do not. He arrived quietly. No announcement. Typical of him."
"Oh gods," another voice murmured. "That monster is here?"
"Lower your voice," someone hissed. "If he hears you—"
"—blood will stain the marble before the night ends," another finished grimly.
A shiver ran through the group.
"Best to keep your distance," a lady said, fanning herself. "They say misfortune follows him like a curse."
Grand Duke Alaric Morvael.
Head of one of the strongest noble houses in the empire—second only to the Imperials themselves. While the Valerith Empire bowed to the Holy Temple and sought blessings from saints and High Priests, House Morvael stood apart.
Rumor claimed the Grand Duke did not kneel, they whispered that he worshipped something else.
Something older.
Darker.
"They say anyone who touches him bleeds out where they stand," a young lord muttered.
"No," another corrected softly. "They say he drinks their blood."
A nervous chuckle followed. "Absurd."
Was it?
No one had ever seen him clearly. No portraits. No confirmed accounts. Only rumors layered upon rumors—each more grotesque than the last.
An old man, they said. A face ruined by fire, eyes that gleamed unnaturally in the dark.
The Monster of the North.
I exhaled slowly, because it all sounded ridiculous, and yet… the room felt colder.
"What are you doing here alone?" I startled, nearly spilling my wine.
Caelan stood before me, his voice warm, his expression gently concerned—as if he hadn't left me standing alone moments earlier.
"I was just—" I faltered, then shook my head. "Nothing."
He smiled, that familiar, disarming smile. "You should not hide yourself away like this."
Before I could respond, he added lightly, "Lady Elara has suggested a diversion. Something amusing."
"A diversion?" I echoed.
"A game," he clarified. "To lighten the mood. You know how these gatherings can grow dull. Would you like to join?"
I hesitated.
Every sensible instinct I possessed—both from this life and the one before—told me that nothing good ever followed those words.
But I nodded anyway.
"Of course," I said quietly.
Together, we moved toward a cluster of young noble heirs gathered near the center of the hall—laughing, drinking, leaning too close, too careless under the illusion of masks and music.
And as I stepped into that circle, unaware of how tightly fate had begun to close its grip—
I could not have known that within moments, one reckless dare would place me directly in the path of the monster everyone feared, Or that the rumors were wrong in only one way.
Because touching him would not kill me.
And that would change everything.