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«ALBATON — PALACE»
Duncan stood before the window, his arms folded neatly behind his back.
His expression was unyielding, his bloodshot eyes fixed blankly on the sky beyond the glass.
Within the palace, his sisters were busy preparing for their welcoming celebration. He knew, deep down, that he would not attend.
His eyes were hollow—like a man whose world had just come to an end.
He was dressed in his black royal robe, the fabric rich and imposing — yet his heart felt darker than the cloth itself.
His long hair fell straight down, reaching his knees like a shadow trailing behind him.
"If he dies, then be prepared for the two of us to join him, Duncan Tharagon, Crown Prince of Ashkaroth."
Thailra's voice echoed relentlessly in his mind.
His jaw tightened.
Behind his back, his fingers curled into tight fists, knuckles paling beneath the strain. A dark, dangerous mist began to seep from his body, coiling slowly into the air around him — thick with restrained fury.
The dark mist thickened, curling around him like a living shadow.
The curtains beside the window stirred though no wind touched them. The candles lining the chamber flickered violently, their flames bending away from him as if in fear.
Duncan did not move.
But the air around him grew heavier.
"If he dies… we join him." Her words would not leave him, she had not hesitated.
Not even for a breath.
His fingers tightened further behind his back, the faint sound of fabric straining beneath his grip breaking the silence of the chamber.
She would have done it.
For that Ice Prince.
His eyes darkened further, red bleeding slowly into the depths of his irises, a sharp crack split the marble floor beneath his boots.
The palace felt it, far down the corridor, servants paused, a tremor — subtle, but unmistakable.
Duncan closed his eyes briefly.
He had faced war. He had faced rebellion. He had faced curses older than kingdoms.
Yet nothing had unsettled him like the sight of her standing there — A sharpened stick against her own throat.
For him.
Against him.
Because of him.
The mist around him pulsed violently, pressing against the walls of his chamber. Frost crept faintly along the window's edges — not from ice magic, but from the sheer drop in temperature caused by his restraint.
Restraint, that was the word, he could have crushed Dracula's throat, he should have, instead, he had loosened his grip.
Because she asked, because she commanded, because her tears burned more fiercely than his fury.
The Ice Prince.
Could he be the lover she had spoken of?
The other man she claimed her heart had chosen? Dracula Corvayne.
Was he the one she had fallen for? The thought alone darkened Duncan's expression.
She was bound to him.
Bound by the Silver Stone.
Bound by fate itself and yet—Despite knowing of that bond… she had the audacity to press a sharpened stick to her own throat.
To threaten her life in defiance of him.
For another man, his jaw clenched so tightly that a faint crack echoed through the chamber.
And Dracula— what had he done?
He had dared to hold her.
Dared to circle her waist as though he had a claim, dared to speak to her with familiarity.
Dared to call her his, a dangerous pulse rippled through Duncan's veins.
The sheer audacity of it to step into Ashkaroth, into his kingdom, into his forest, into his territory— and touch what was his.
The dark mist around Duncan thickened again, curling violently along the floor like living smoke.
The torches outside his chamber flickered and dimmed.
Duncan's fingers slowly loosened behind his back, if the Ice Prince truly held a fragment of her past—Then this was no longer simply rivalry.
It was something far more dangerous, a fracture, not between kingdoms, but between bonds.
Duncan opened his eyes.
The red within them burned brighter now — not wild, not uncontrolled — but sharpened. Focused, If Dracula Corvayne held a fragment of her past, then the threat was not physical.
It was emotional, and emotional bonds were far harder to sever than flesh.
This was the kind of feeling he hated.
The Serpent Goddess would surely face his wrath for cursing him. Even the Silver Stone would bear his fury for binding him to a fragile, powerless human who had given her heart to another.
The voice that urged him to claim her — to spill his essence and make her the Queen of Ashkaroth — would also face his rage.
There was no need to protect her if she already had another protector, she would dearly pay for threatening him.
She would come to understand why he was her Eclipse and why she was his Moon.
It seemed she had forgotten her role within this cursed bond.
He would remind her soon.
She had threatened him, so why should he not respond in the same way? The thought brushed across Duncan's mind like a shadow.
His lips curled into a dark, ruthless smirk, sending a chill through the room.
The smirk lingered only for a moment before fading into something colder.
A distant swell of music rose from the palace courtyard below — violins, drums, and the murmur of gathered nobility.
Laughter drifted faintly upward, bright and careless.
The celebration had begun.
"Your Highness, Princess Aurelia requests to see you," the announcer said from behind the door, his voice slightly unsteady.
Duncan's lips curled upward faintly.
He turned away from the window and extended his palm. Instantly, a crystal goblet filled with dark blood liquid materialized in his hand.
He lifted it to his lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip before lowering it again, his gaze drifted back to the sky, distant and unreadable.
"Let her enter," he replied.
His deep voice resonated through the chamber, powerful enough to stir the air itself, sending faint dust cascading from the ceiling above.
The door opened, and Aurelia stepped into the chamber thick with the metallic scent of blood.
It nearly made her vomit, but she forced it down, unwilling to cause a scene—at least not yet.
She was dressed in her full princess attire, the soft rustle of her sapphire gown whispering against the marble floor as she moved.
Unlike the servants, she did not tremble, unlike the guards, she did not lower her gaze.
Instead, she surveyed the room with undisguised disgust, her expression cold and unyielding.
"You killed Father," Aurelia said, her voice trembling not with fear, but with fury. "And you stand here without a trace of guilt or remorse for what you have done."
Her eyes burned as she took a step forward.
"He died by your sword — by your own hand. You pierced his chest, and now you remain here, drinking as though nothing has happened. There are no preparations for his burial. No mourning. No honor."
Her voice grew sharper, heavy with disdain and hatred.
"How can you be so cold toward us?"
Her hair was tied neatly into a bun, secured with a royal princess pin that held it firmly in place, though nothing could restrain the storm blazing within her eyes.
Duncan lowered the goblet slowly, for a moment, the chamber fell into a suffocating silence, he turned to face her fully.
The faint red glow in his eyes had dimmed, replaced not with rage — but with something far more unreadable.
"Are you finished?" he asked calmly, the question struck harder than a shout, Aurelia's hands tightened at her sides, he set the goblet down upon the table with deliberate care.
"I am not afraid of you. The least you can do is tear my body apart, just as you did to those innocent people thrown into your chambers when you were chained there".
"I am here to make it clear that you have gained another enemy. By killing our father and depriving us of the right to bury him within the palace walls—by denying the monks the chance to bless his corpse—you have sent a message"
"You intend for the late king to be buried in Avialyn Forest, a cursed land filled with dark sorcerers and sorceresses. You wish to cast him into that forsaken place, you are not human. You possess no heart. You deserve to be locked in hell forever." Princess Aurelia spoke fearlessly, her gaze fixed on him.
He turned his piercing gaze toward her, but all he could see was a frightened little rat trembling before him.
"Bold," Duncan muttered, averting his gaze as he reached for his glass of blood wine, lifting it slowly to his lips and taking a measured sip. He then walked toward the window, his attention drifting once more to the sky.
"Hell?" he murmured with a faint scoff, taking another sip.
Aurelia's fists tightened at her sides as she studied him, her anger barely restrained beneath her composure.
"You are not afraid. I can see that," Duncan said quietly.
"But you know what I have done to those who dare cross the line, the late king met the same fate as those who opposed me. You are beginning to test my patience, dear sister. If I lose control, your heart will be the first I tear from your chest." His voice darkened with venomous, restrained vengeance.
"As for burying Valgor within the palace and allowing the monks to bless his corpse—such a thing will not happen under my watch, he does not deserve a befitting burial. He deserves something far worse, he shall be buried in Avialyn Forest. And if anyone dares to defy my order then…"
He paused and glanced at her over his shoulder, his voice dripping with lethal coldness.
"I will not only rip out their hearts but do something far worse. Do not test me, Aurelia. If I take your heart, no one will question it. It is your loss, not mine. If you get on my nerves once more, I will not aim for your soul—I will go straight to your mother's chamber, and she will bear the consequences of your actions," he muttered coldly, and a sudden wave of fear gripped her chest.
"Lay your hands on my mother, and I promise you—I will not stop until I put you in the same position you placed my father in. I will see your end!" Aurelia shouted.
Suddenly, a powerful force lifted her and hurled her against the wall.
She collapsed to the floor from the impact, pain surging through her as the brutality of the attack left its mark.
Duncan brought his blood-red wine closer to his lips and took a slow sip, one hand folded calmly behind his back.
Aurelia gasped for air as if an invisible force was tightening around her throat.
Her vision blurred, and her pale eyes brimmed with tears as she turned them toward him, struggling to speak but unable to force the words out.
"You… will pay for this… Duncan," she managed to whisper with great difficulty.
She tried to break free from the unseen grip choking her, but her strength was fading. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks as she closed her eyes, trapped in helpless pain.
With a mere wave of his fingers, she vanished—only to find herself inside the horse stable, having landed in the foul pit of dung.
"DUNCAN!!!!
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«THE VALET—ROOM»
The valet who delivered the prince's clothes was an elderly woman.
She had just finished ironing and folding the garments, carefully securing them inside a bag, ready to take them to their destination.
Just as she was about to leave, a knock sounded at the door, she set the bag down and walked over to open it.
The moment the door parted, a hand shot forward and seized her by the throat, forcing her backward. The intruder stepped inside.
It was Melissa Drakmor.
The old woman's eyes widened in pain and shock as she struggled for breath. Melissa glanced over her shoulder at the door, then calmly pushed it shut.
The lock clicked into place, only then did she slowly turn her gaze back to the trembling valet.
"The prince's attire—hand it over to me. I will deliver it to him myself," she muttered coldly.
The old woman immediately pointed toward the bag resting on the chair.
Melissa's gaze shifted to it, and her smirk deepened.
Without warning, she released the valet with a rough shove. The elderly woman staggered backward, nearly losing her balance, but managed to steady herself before she fell.
"You are nothing but a maid of the royal household. How dare you demand the prince's attire when you clearly belong in the kitchen?" the valet snapped.
Melissa slowly turned to face her.
Her eyes were sharp and cold—like a serpent's—sending a chill down the old woman's spine.
The valet trembled slightly under that piercing gaze and instinctively stepped back
"Listen to me, old woman," Melissa said as she stepped forward and seized her shoulder tightly.
The valet winced in pain.
Melissa shoved her back against the wall, her grip tightening mercilessly as she pinned her there. Then she leaned in close, her lips hovering near the old woman's ear.
"I will deliver the prince's attire, and if anyone asks, you will say that you entrusted it to me by command. Do I make myself clear?" Melissa asked coldly.
The valet hesitated.
Melissa's grip tightened, her fingers digging painfully into the woman's shoulder. The valet gasped and quickly nodded again and again in frightened agreement.
"Forget today's meeting, and remember—silence is sometimes the only thread that keeps one alive inside a palace."
She added, a dark smirk slowly curled across Melissa's lips.
Meanwhile in the royal kitchen stood Sylara inhaling deeply and slowly exhaling as she glanced around the kitchen.
No other maids were present; they had all gone to assist in preparing the celebration being held today—the princesss' welcome party.
She took another breath and pressed her hand against the inner layer of her clothing, retrieving a wrapped item that Melissa had given her.
She was instructed to place it inside Thailra's, Duncan Tharagon's Moon food and deliver it to her chamber, as she had been assigned as the one responsible for delivering the Queen's meals.
Sylara stood still for a moment, the silence of the royal kitchen pressing gently against her thoughts.
The fire beneath the large iron stove crackled softly, its orange glow reflecting faintly on the polished stone floor.
Outside, distant celebration preparations echoed through the palace corridors, but here the world felt quiet—almost suspended.
She lowered her gaze to the wrapped item in her hands.
Melissa's words returned to her mind like a shadow that refused to fade.
Place it inside the Moon food.
Deliver it to the chamber.
Nothing more.
Sylara's fingers tightened slightly around the fabric.
The palace was beautiful, but beauty here was often wrapped around secrets.
She exhaled slowly.
Somewhere deeper inside her chest, unease stirred, though she could not tell whether it was fear—or warning.
She walked toward the long preparation table where Thailra's meal was placed, the silver tray waiting under the dim kitchen light, the air felt heavier as she approached.
Carefully, silently, she lifted the food cover just enough to slip the small wrapped object beneath the warm meal, hiding it where no casual glance would notice.
Her heart beat a little faster, for a brief second, she paused, listening.
No footsteps.
No voices.
Only the faint hiss of cooking flames and the distant murmur of a palace preparing for celebration.
Sylara replaced the food cover gently, then she straightened, picked up the tray, and stood there for a moment longer than necessary.
If Duncan Tharagon, the demon prince, discovered this, she would truly be as good as dead.
Sylara recalled the moment Duncan had carried her in his arms when he returned to the palace—the way he held her with both protectiveness and possessive restraint, as though silently warning the world to stay away from her, declaring that she was his.
If something went wrong now, she feared she might join her ancestors before the night was over.
She shut her eyes tightly, hot tears slipping down her cheeks. Quickly, she wiped them away and made to leave.
Just then, Princess Cassandra stepped inside.
Sylara swallowed nervously and immediately bowed.
Princess Cassandra studied her for a moment as Sylara bowed even deeper.
Princess Cassandra's gaze moved slowly from head to toe while she continued fanning herself with her large, elegant fan.
"What exactly are you doing here holding that tray of food while the other maids are out in the field setting things up? Who requested this food, and to whom are you delivering it? And why are you trembling as if I were some evil spirit?" Princess Cassandra asked, raising an eyebrow.
Sylara's gaze dropped to her legs, which were visibly trembling.
That was when she realized she was truly shaking.
Even her hand holding the tray trembled slightly, beads of sweat forming on her forehead as she suddenly felt uncomfortably warm inside.
"The head chef instructed that porridge be prepared for the Prince's Moon, who arrived two hours ago, and delivered to her chamber. According to palace rules, a queen or princess returning from a journey must be served porridge. I have been assigned as her personal maid, and I am delivering the food to the Prince's Moon's chamber, my princess."
Sylara bowed lower, and Princess Cassandra smiled, nodding repeatedly as she continued fanning herself.
"Hand it over to me. I will deliver it myself," Cassandra said.
Sylara's eyes widened, her breath left her lungs.
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«DUNCAN'S — CHAMBER»
A sudden knock echoed at the door.
Duncan closed his eyes briefly, exhaling softly, without warning, the door creaked open.
Thailra stepped inside.
She was barefoot, her hair disheveled and falling loosely around her shoulders. Her eyes remained shut, her movements slow and unsteady.
Duncan's lips curled into a dark, ruthless smirk, he had summoned her with his mind.
And it had worked.
Her expression was drowsy, almost entranced, strands of hair scattered across her pale face.
Bruises marked her feet — and his own bore similar marks — yet the moment her skin crossed the threshold of his chamber, the bruises faded, vanishing as though they had never existed.
She remained unconscious, standing before him in silence.
Duncan studied her in silence, his arms still folded behind his back. The chamber seemed to respond to her presence — the air subtly shifting, the Silver Stone at his chest glowing faintly as if recognizing its other half.
"So you truly have another lover," Duncan said, his voice low but trembling with restrained fury.
"And that lover happens to be the Ice Prince of the Alvaro Kingdom." His eyes burned as they locked onto hers.
"I warned you what I am capable of if he dares to stand before me. Yet you had the audacity to threaten me with our deaths." His jaw tightened.
"We are bound together, Thailra. You know why I am protective of you. You understand the nature of this bond." His voice deepened, thunder rolling beneath every word.
"And still—you dare to threaten me over another man?" He stepped closer, his piercing gaze unwavering.
"How dare you, Thailra Alvarez?"
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