[Lior's POV — Midnight — The Chamber]
"…Did you truly believe I would love someone like you?" Caelen's voice echoed in the dark.
He stood before me, his smile slow and cruel, his eyes glittering like something that enjoyed watching things break. The room around us had no walls, no ceiling—only shadow stretching endlessly outward.
Beside him stood Elara, perfect, composed, beautiful, and smiling.
"You fool," she said softly, tilting her head. "He only pretended to love you. Did you really think someone would choose someone useless like you?"
Her words didn't shout; they slid, sharp as glass. Father stood opposite them, looming larger than I remembered, his shadow swallowing the floor.
"You killed her," he said quietly.
That tone, that controlled, hateful calm, "The day you were born, you devoured your mother. You came into this world soaked in death."
I tried to speak; nothing came out, and yet I was kneeling. I hadn't realized when I'd fallen to my knees. My hands were shaking; my chest hurt.
"You are the monster who devoured everything," Father continued as the void around us tightened.
"You don't deserve happiness," Elara whispered.
"You don't deserve love," Caelen added.
Father lifted the lash as he said, "And you will live a life filled with hell."
CRACK—!
I flinched before it even landed.
"No—!"
I scrambled backward, but the ground dissolved beneath me. The void stretched infinitely. No matter how fast I crawled, they remained in front of me.
Closer.
Smiling.
Judging.
I tried to stand, my legs wouldn't move and my voice broke, "I didn't, I didn't mean to—"
CRACK—!
The sound echoed, but there was no pain, only shame, only the certainty that they were right.
I am the problem; I am the curse.
I tried to run, but the darkness stretched. The more I moved, the more it swallowed me, until I heard---
"Lior."
The voice didn't belong to them.
"Lior."
The darkness trembled.
"LIOR!"
I gasped awake, my body jolting upright, breath tearing from my lungs in ragged bursts.
PANT. PANT. PANT.
Sweat soaked my collar. My heart felt like it was trying to escape my ribs. My hands were shaking violently, and someone was holding one of them firmly and warmly.
"Lior," he said again, his voice low but steady. "Look at me."
I blinked rapidly, vision struggling to adjust to the chamber, the fire, and the stone walls, not the void. The grand duke was sitting up beside me, one hand wrapped around mine—not painfully, just enough to anchor me.
"Are you aware of where you are?" he asked calmly.
I swallowed hard. "Y-yes…"
"Good."
He released my hand only long enough to reach for a glass from the bedside table. He pressed it into my palm, "Here, take a sip."
My fingers were trembling so badly the water sloshed against the rim. He steadied the glass without comment and tilted it slightly toward my lips.
"Slowly."
The water was cool and real. I swallowed, my breath still uneven. When I finally looked at him properly, his expression was composed—controlled—but something beneath it had shifted.
A faint tightness around his eyes, not panic, not softness, but something like… irritation at whatever had disturbed me.
"Did you have a nightmare?" he asked.
I nodded, ashamed of how small I felt as I whispered, "I apologize; I didn't mean to wake you."
His gaze sharpened slightly and said flatly, "You do not apologize for breathing."
That silenced me. He pulled the blanket higher around my shoulders, movements precise but not rough as he added, "You were speaking and repeating that you didn't mean to."
My stomach twisted.
I looked away; silence lingered between us. He observed me coldly and quietly. "Whatever nightmare you had, let me inform you that you are safe here."
"Safe?" I mumbled.
He didn't say anything later, but for some reason, the word felt foreign, unfamiliar, almost laughable.
And yet… I had woken up, not to a lash, not to screaming, not to hatred, but to warmth. To someone shaking me awake instead of striking me down.
He studied me for a long second, then he extended his hand. "If you require physical confirmation that you are not alone, you may hold my hand."
My eyes flickered to it; his hand was steady.
Unmoving.
Waiting.
I hesitated.
He exhaled quietly—not impatient, just measured as he amended, voice slightly slower, "Or, just hold my shirt."
He turned slightly onto his side, giving me the option without forcing it. The room was quiet except for the fire; my heart was still racing. He turned his back on me, and slowly—cautiously—I reached forward.
Not for his hand, for the fabric of his shirt. My fingers curled into it lightly, just enough to anchor myself.
He did not comment, did not look at me, did not move closer. He simply remained there.
Solid.
Warm.
Present.
The darkness in the corners of the room felt less infinite now. My breathing gradually slowed, my grip loosened slightly, and somewhere between the fading echo of Father's voice and the steady rhythm of someone beside me who did not raise a lash—sleep returned, not peacefully, but more quietly.
***
[The Next Day — Dining Hall]
The dining hall was suffocatingly quiet, the kind of quiet where every clink of porcelain feels like a mistake. I sat straight-backed, hands folded too neatly in my lap, aware of every breath I took. The mark on my wrist felt heavier under the morning light.
Across from us, his mother lifted her teacup with deliberate calm.
"So," she said lightly, though nothing about her tone was light, "you truly married him."
Her gaze did not move to my face; it moved to our wrists.
The matching sigils.
One pale.
One black.
The tea did not tremble in her hand, but I saw the tightness in her jaw.
Alaric did not react.
"I already explained the situation," he said evenly. "Repeating the question will not alter the outcome, Mother."
She set her cup down with a soft click, "You call that an explanation?"
Silence stretched; she finally looked at me, not briefly, not casually, and studied me. As though assessing whether I was a mistake or a threat.
I lowered my gaze immediately; my spine felt cold as she called, "Maria."
A woman stepped forward from the wall, bowing deeply. "Yes, my lady."
"Show our… so-called Grand Duchess the estate."
So-called.
The words slid like a blade. Maria nodded. "As you command."
His mother stood as she said coolly, "And bring my breakfast to my chambers. It has become rather… suffocating in here."
Her eyes flicked once more toward our wrists before she turned and left. The doors shut softly behind her.
I exhaled without meaning to, and then the sound betrayed me.
"If you allow every word spoken in this house to pierce you," Alaric said calmly, "you will not survive here."
I looked up at him. "Pardon?"
His gaze was steady. Cold. Observant, he continued, "Stop expecting acceptance, and stop listening to what you do not wish to hear."
There was no cruelty in his tone, only instruction, because it's easy for him, not a human like me.
"Yes," I said quietly.
The servants finally began placing food properly in front of us. I picked up my utensils. I wasn't hungry, not really; my stomach twisted nervously, tight as a knot.
But I ate, because weakness had already cost me too much. I forced each bite down.
Mechanical, controlled.
Another bite.
Another swallow.
"You will choke." His voice cut across the table.
I froze mid-swallow.
GULP—!
I barely managed to force it down without coughing. He exhaled—faintly annoyed—and pushed his wineglass toward me.
"Drink."
I hesitated only a second before obeying; the wine burned slightly going down, and he watched until I swallowed properly.
"Do not rush your own survival," he said quietly. "You will only choke."
The words lingered longer than they should have. When the meal ended, he stood first, saying, "Maria will escort you and show you the house."
I nodded.
He took a step away, then paused, and the air shifted; he turned back.
Walked toward me, slowly---Way to close to me. My pulse quickened instantly as he lifted his hand. I flinched before I could stop myself.
His eyes flickered at that—not anger, something else; he did not grab me. Did not restrain me. Instead, his thumb brushed lightly against my cheek.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Wiping away something I hadn't realized was there — perhaps tension, perhaps nothing at all.
"Be a good boy," he said softly, possessively but not playfully. "Stay well until I return."
My heart slammed hard against my ribs. His nearness felt like standing too close to a storm cloud—quiet, charged, waiting.
"Alright?" he asked.
It wasn't truly a question.
"…Yes," I whispered.
He leaned closer, eyes shut instinctively, bracing, but his lips didn't find mine. They brushed lightly against my hair instead.
A quiet, territorial gesture, not passion but claim.
"I will return soon," he said.
Then he stepped away and left. The doors closed behind him, and the dining hall suddenly felt larger.
Empty.
I blinked, dazed.
"He's… strange," I muttered under my breath.
Yesterday I had been dragged here like purchased cargo and today… he spoke as though I were something he intended to keep.
I pressed my fingers lightly against the mark on my wrist.
It pulsed once.
Softly.
"But it doesn't matter," I whispered to myself.
Because I cannot stay, because possession is not protection, because survival means escape. I lifted my head slightly.
Maria was waiting.
"Shall we begin, Your Grace?" she asked carefully.
I stood.
"Yes."
And as I followed her out of the hall, I forced my face into calm obedience, because if I were going to escape the North, I would first have to learn its corridors.