When the moon bled upon the water, and the river forgot its song,
A maiden pale as mourning light would be cast to wake the drowned.
Her heart would tilt the scales of the living and the dead.
It was the prophecy Raymun had heard since childhood—a lullaby whispered by nervous servants, murmured by old nurses when they thought she slept, a story meant to soothe, yet always warning of what she must become.
Now, darkness pressed around her like a closing fist, yet she would not break.
Those ancient words, those terrible promises, those invisible chains—she would meet them, on her own terms.
Her eyes opened to a sky of rippling shadows—the night vast, merciless. The air smelled of wet earth and river reeds. She lay half-submerged on the muddy shore, her soaked gown clinging like a second skin.
Coughing, sputtering, her lungs burning, she pushed herself upright. Moonlight caught her silver hair and pale skin, turning her into something almost ethereal—yet the set of her jaw, the fire in her eyes, was all human defiance.
A rustle.
She turned sharply, every nerve taut. A figure stepped from the reeds, tall, imposing.
"Who's there?" Her voice was firm, cutting through the damp night.
He stepped into the moonlight.
The sight stole her breath for a heartbeat, but she refused to falter. His skin was deep bronze, wet and gleaming, muscles carved like a living sculpture. Golden bands hugged his forearms and biceps, symbols glinting faintly with movement.
His black hair hung loose and wet, framing a face sharp enough to carve fear and desire in equal measure.
And those eyes—golden, molten, impossibly alive—held her attention like a spell.
Raymun squared her shoulders. Her pulse raced, yes—but she was not afraid. "Why are you here?" she demanded.
He smiled, slow, knowing, a predator confident in his power yet not cruel. "Because you were drowning," he said. "And I didn't like the idea of losing you so soon."
Her chest rose, indignation flaring. "I didn't need saving."
"You were underwater," he said lightly, the corner of his mouth quirked, "yet here you are. Clearly, I was… persuasive enough."
Heat crept up her neck, but she refused to let it betray her. "Persuasive? You pulled me out without asking if I wanted it. That's not persuasion. That's… arrogance."
He laughed, low, seductive, the sound vibrating against her ribs. "Arrogance has its uses," he said, stepping closer. Even wet, he moved with lethal grace. "But don't flatter yourself. I saved you because… I had to."
Raymun's gaze hardened. "And what if I don't want anything from you?"
"Then I'll have to convince you," he murmured, the golden light of his eyes flickering with amusement and something darker, something dangerous.
She took a deliberate step back, her hand brushing against the damp linen of her gown, but she didn't flee. "I don't trust easily."
"Good," he said, voice low and smooth. "
Raymun felt her breath hitch, though she straightened her spine and met his gaze without bowing.
Her pulse thudded in her ears, not from fear, but awareness of the danger, the allure. She didn't retreat, didn't falter—she faced him, every line of her body declaring: I am not yours to command.
Finally, she broke the silence. "Who are you?"
"A man who chooses to be where he is," he said, voice smooth as silk, eyes smoldering.
"Call it luck."
Raymun repeated the word softly, tasting it. "Luck," she said. She had never known it. And yet, she had survived. And she would survive whatever came next.
The night pressed close, thick with tension, water, and unspoken promises. She wanted to flee, to demand answers, yet she held her ground. She would not be a shadow. Not tonight. Not ever.
And though she did not know his name, nor what he truly was, a single truth settled deep inside her: she would meet destiny head-on—and no golden-eyed god, mortal, or stranger would make her bow.