(Leon's POV)
Once a respected young lord in the Kingdom of Ellis, Leonardo Eleonor had been more than just a childhood friend to Princess Seraphina—he had been her confidant, her protector, her shadow. She was a woman of rare vision and kindness, a dreamer who longed for a more just world. Her ideals had shaped him, had inspired his unwavering devotion. But when the Emperor of Elthor, a man whose appetites knew no bounds, turned his gaze upon her, her fate was sealed. To secure their standing, her own family betrayed her, offering her as a concubine to a monster. Her dreams were shattered, her light dimmed, and Leon could do nothing but watch.
Desperation drove him to defy fate. He cast aside his name, his title, and even his identity, disguising himself as a woman to stay by Seraphina's side. As her silent guardian, he bore witness to her suffering—the bruises hidden beneath silk, the vacant look in her once-bright eyes. Each night, she whispered the horrors of her existence, and each night, he was powerless to stop them. But the deepest wound came after the miscarriage, when hope finally abandoned her.
"Leon, I see no freedom left in this world—only chains, each link heavier than the last. Can you still call this a sacrifice for my kingdom? Why me...why do I have to do that?" Her voice trembled, each word a blade carving into his soul.
His heart clenched. He wanted to tell her there was still hope, but the weight of reality silenced him. Time dragged on, and each day, there was a relentless cycle of suffering. Every night, Seraphina pleaded for freedom—not through escape, but through death. He refused to hear her. Until one day, he could no longer deny her desperation.
They fled, seizing the first sliver of opportunity. The wind howled against their carriage, rattling the wooden frame as hooves pounded over the rain-slicked road. But home was no longer home. Ellis turned its back on its lost princess, its towering walls now cold and unwelcoming. The streets that once echoed with Seraphina's laughter were lined with silent, watchful eyes, fearing the Emperor's wrath more than her suffering. The scent of damp earth and burning torches clung to the air as her own family—who had once offered her to a beast—prepared to send her back to him.
Leon could still hear the hollow finality in her voice when she whispered her last plea: Leon, please kill me... Her breath had been warm against his ear, but her voice carried the chill of someone who had already died inside.
But fate had other plans.
The carriage shuddered to a halt, the horses shrieking in terror. The metallic tang of blood filled the air before Leon even registered the sound of swords being drawn. Not the Emperor's men. No, the figures in the road bore the black and gold sigil of Marceau. And at the center of them, mounted atop a sleek midnight steed, was Prince Michaelli—a name whispered in fear across kingdoms. His golden eyes, sharp as a predator's, gleamed beneath the flickering torchlight.
His mind was a labyrinth of ruthless intellect, his ambitions an enigma. Seraphina, trembling yet unyielding, saw her final chance. Her fingers, stiff with cold, tightened around Leon's wrist before she stepped forward, her voice steady despite the storm raging inside her.
She offered Michaelli an ancient piece of Arcanographica—a relic of immense and mysterious power—in exchange for one thing: the destruction of the kingdom that had betrayed her.
Michaelli's golden eyes gleamed with interest. With cold efficiency, he turned his attention to Ellis. Under his strategic hand, the kingdom crumbled. Its rulers were annihilated, and its legacy was reduced to ashes. Seraphina, once a dreamer, now wielded her vengeance like a blade.
But vengeance had a cost. When the time came to uphold her end of the bargain, Seraphina revealed the truth: only through her death could the Arcanographica's power be transferred to Michaelli. The air in the chamber thickened, suffocating, as the weight of her words settled over them like a funeral shroud. And yet, she did not waver. With quiet acceptance, she lifted her chin, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. Her final request was simple—Leon must be spared.
Michaelli, his golden eyes unreadable, considered her for a moment. Then, with a slow nod, he agreed.
Seraphina turned to Leon, her lips curving into a trembling smile, but there was no warmth in it—only the fragile remnants of a life slipping through her fingers. "Thank you," she whispered, her breath feather-light against his skin. It was not just gratitude; it was farewell. In her eyes, he saw everything—the echoes of laughter that once rang through marble halls, the shared secrets murmured beneath starlit skies, the stolen moments of warmth in a world that had only ever taken from her. His throat tightened, his vision blurred, but he refused to look away.
Michaelli did not hesitate.
The blade flashed, swift and merciless. Seraphina's breath hitched—just once—as a crimson bloom spread across her chest, staining the delicate fabric of her gown. The scent of iron filled the air. She swayed, her fingers twitching as though reaching for something unseen, before her knees buckled. She crumpled to the ground, her body light as a falling petal. Her life slipped away like the last note of a mournful song, lingering only for a heartbeat before fading into silence.
A low, unnatural hum filled the chamber as the relic's power surged into Michaelli. The energy crackled, searing through him with an eerie golden glow, illuminating his sharp features in flickering light. But Leon did not see it.
All he saw was darkness.
He fell to his knees, his breath ragged, his body wracked with sobs so raw they scraped against his throat. The grief was not just pain—it was fire and ice, burning through his veins and freezing his limbs in place. His hands trembled as he reached for her, his fingers brushing against hers. Already, she was growing cold.
The weight of her absence pressed down on him, suffocating.
The room, once too small and stifling, now felt like an endless void. Michaelli stood above him, power thrumming beneath his skin, his golden eyes glinting with something unreadable. But Leon did not look at him.
He had no reason to.
The man who had once been Leonardo Eleonor ceased to exist that day. The grieving noble became Leon Eleonor, Head Historian to the Prince of Marceau. Hardened. Relentless. A man without a past, devoted only to the future. Michaelli sought to conquer the world, and Leon would help him do it. Not for glory. Not for power.
For Seraphina.
His hands clenched into fists as he gazed out the window, the dark sky stretching endlessly before him. "For you, Seraphina," he murmured, voice raw with unspoken promises. "I would help burn this empire to the ground if it meant your peace."
***
The Prince's Quarters were dim, the candlelight barely stretching beyond the heavy stone walls. A crow cawed in the distance, its cry sharp before fading into the stillness. A figure emerged from the darkness, his presence shifting the air itself. The Veil. His name carried weight, whispered in fear and reverence. His armor, a seamless blend of shadow and blood-red steel, seemed to drink in the light, its surface etched with runes that whispered of battles unrecorded, of deaths unseen.
A mask of polished obsidian concealed his eyes, its surface so smooth it reflected nothing, granting him an unsettling anonymity. Those who stood before him never truly knew if he was watching, assessing, or merely waiting. And yet, when he moved, it was with the lethal grace of a predator who saw all. His gauntlets, sleek and unmarred, bore no scars—a testament to the precision of his strikes, to battles won before his enemies even had the chance to fight back. At his waist, a single blade rested within an intricate scabbard, its hilt wrapped in worn leather. A single engraving marked him as the prince's most ruthless executioner.
He halted a few paces from the prince, bowing with the slow, deliberate movements of a man unshaken by fear. His voice, when it came, was low, coarse, carrying the weight of silent oaths and unspoken violence. "Your Highness," he intoned. Though the prince's gaze settled on him, The Veil required no sight to understand his ruler's will. Each breath he took seemed attuned to Michaelli's own, as though he were not just a man, but an extension of the prince's most dangerous intentions—a blade waiting to be unsheathed.
Rising from his bow, The Veil inclined his head ever so slightly, the only indication that his full attention was fixed upon his master. He did not need eyes to see, for he moved as though the empire's pulse thrummed beneath his skin, guiding him through its tangled web of intrigue and war.
"Everything is ready. The Crimsons are stationed and awaiting your command."
A slow, menacing smile curled across Michaelli's lips. In the dim candlelight, his golden eyes gleamed like embers in the dark.
"Who is it?" His voice was smooth, yet ice-cold.
The Veil lifted his head, his expression unreadable beneath the mask. "Terado, from the southern region."
Michaelli rose from his seat with a languid, calculated movement, each shift of his body deliberate, as though time itself obeyed him. He reached for his coat, his fingers ghosting over the fabric, but before he could don it, a presence hesitated by the doorway.
"Your Highness," Nixon, his trusted aide, spoke carefully, each word chosen with precision. "Are you going yourself?"
A beat of silence stretched between them. Michaelli's fingers stilled against the coat, his golden eyes narrowing as he turned his gaze toward Nixon. The flickering candlelight deepened the sharp angles of his face, making him appear almost sculpted from shadow itself. The weight of the question hung in the air, thick, heavy.
The Veil nodded once, his silent acknowledgment of Michaelli's command understood without words. Then, as if the shadows had claimed him once more, he was gone.
"I will," Michaelli finally said, his voice laced with impatience. He lifted the coat, draping it over his shoulders with slow precision, the fabric rustling in the silence. "Do you think I would leave something this important to anyone else?"
The room felt colder as he stepped closer to Nixon, his presence pressing against the aide like a weight. Nixon swallowed, his fingers tightening into his sleeves, but he did not dare step back. Michaelli's gaze bore into him, expectant, unrelenting.
"You hesitate," Michaelli noted, his voice quiet, yet sharp enough to cut. He detested hesitation, especially from those who should have long understood the efficiency with which he moved. "Why?"
Nixon bowed his head, his throat working around his next words. "It's not my place to question, Your Highness. I only fear for your safety."
A ghost of a smile—humorless, unreadable—touched Michaelli's lips. His fingers brushed the hilt of his dagger, a silent reminder that his safety had never been a concern.
"Fear?" he echoed, his voice carrying a dangerous softness. He stepped past Nixon, his movements smooth, purposeful, and yet, with each step, the air around him seemed to darken. He did not look back as he strode toward the hallway, his presence trailing behind him like a lingering storm.
"If there's anything left to fear in this world, Nixon," he murmured, his voice a whisper that coiled around the aide's spine, "it's not for my safety."
He paused at the threshold, casting one final glance over his shoulder, his golden eyes glowing in the dim light. The weight of his words settled in the silence, suffocating, inescapable.
"It is me."