Starlion dismounted his horse and took me from Draven's arms. His grip was firm but careful, his expression unreadable as he looked at the worn-out commander. "I'll take it from here, Lord Draven. Please, get some rest."
The grand halls of the palace stretched endlessly as Starlion carried me through them. The air was rich with the scent of burning incense, and the golden chandeliers overhead cast a soft glow against the towering marble pillars. Guards stood at attention, their armor gleaming under the flickering torchlight.
"Lord Starlion," the medics greeted in unison as he entered the medical wing.
The head medic, an older woman with sharp eyes and steady hands, stepped forward. "We'll take care of her."
"I'll leave it to you, then." Starlion nodded, his voice steady despite the concern in his eyes. He turned on his heel and left without another word.
Draven sat alone in his chambers, his fingers threading through his raven-black hair in frustration. His reflection in the mirror bore an unfamiliar look—troubled. Irritated.
"What is going on?" he muttered, his jaw tightening. "Why won't the pain go away?"
The bandits were dead. Slaughtered. And yet, the rage still burned in his veins, as if their deaths had not been enough. He clenched his fists, his knuckles white.
"Majesty... just who are you?"
Draven had never cared for anyone. Never allowed anyone to linger in his mind longer than necessary. He had everything—power, wealth, dominance—so why did it feel like something had been torn from him the moment she was struck?
The first time he saw her, she had been covered in bruises, her body frail, her eyes defiant. He had felt something then, a sharp pang in his chest that he ignored. But now, it was impossible to push aside.
"She was the one who got hurt… so why do I feel this pain?"
A knock on the door snapped him from his thoughts.
"Your Majesty, the bath is prepared," the maid announced before quickly stepping away.
Draven exhaled, stripping off his coat with practiced ease. Though the battle had been brutal, not a single stain marred the pristine fabric. Just as his fingers brushed the buckle of his belt, a flicker in the shadows made him pause.
A figure stepped forward, emerging from the darkness like a specter. The dim candlelight barely illuminated her, but her presence alone was enough to rival his own.
"I see you've brought back an interesting souvenir this time around," she mused, her voice smooth, edged with amusement.
Draven didn't even look in her direction as she spoke. "Are you referring to Majesty?" His tone was cold, indifferent, as he unbuckled his belt and let it drop to the floor.
"Yes." She crossed her arms, watching him with sharp, knowing eyes. "There's something I want you to do for me."
He scoffed, cutting her off before she could continue. "I don't care. Whatever it is, handle it yourself. It's not like you lack the ability." His patience was already thin, and he wasn't in the mood for more demands.
"If you're here, that means he sent you. Whatever task he gave you, I couldn't care less."
Her expression darkened. "Won't you at least hear me out? You owe me a favor, don't you? Or have you forgotten who made you king?"
Draven's fingers twitched. "I'm already in a bad mood. Don't provoke me."
She smirked. "If you're this agitated, I assume Majesty has something to do with it?"
Before she could utter another word, Draven moved. In a blink, he had her by the throat, pinning her against the wall.
"I told you," he said, voice low and dangerous, "not to provoke me."
Her lips curled into a mocking smile, completely unfazed. "My, are you trying to seduce me?"
His grip tightened for a brief second before he let her go. He sank into the steaming bath, submerging himself to his shoulders as he exhaled heavily. The heat did little to ease the lingering ache in his chest.
"Say what you came to say and leave," he said.
She knelt beside the tub, taking a sponge and dipping it into the water. Without asking, she took his arm and began to wash him. The slow, deliberate movements felt more like an act of dominance than service.
"It's about that girl. Majesty," she said, wringing the water from the sponge before trailing it down his other arm. "I want information on her… and her connection to Nyxelene."
Draven's eyes snapped open. He sat up slightly, his gaze sharp. "What does he want with Majesty?"
She shrugged. "That, even I don't know. But it seems he's suddenly taken an interest."
Draven's jaw clenched. "What is he planning this time?"
"That's what I'd like to know as well." She tilted her head. "But tell me, Draven… you don't actually care about this girl, do you?"
His expression didn't change. "Of course not."
She studied him for a moment, then smirked. "Good. I'll be waiting for your call."
With that, she disappeared into the shadows, leaving only the scent of lingering perfume in her wake.
Draven leaned back against the tub, shutting his eyes.
After his bath, Draven decided to check on Majesty. As he stepped into the dimly lit hallway, the scent of herbs and burning incense from the medical ward drifted through the air.
Just as he turned a corner, the head medic appeared, her robes rustling softly as she bowed.
"Your Highness," she greeted swiftly.
"How is the guest doing?" Draven asked, his voice steady but laced with an edge of curiosity.
The medic hesitated. "It's... strange."
Draven's brows drew together. "Strange how?"
She exhaled, as if struggling to make sense of what she was about to say. "The report stated she was struck by a poisoned arrow. But when we examined her, there was no wound—only traces of blood on her clothing. No sign of the arrow's entry point, no remnants of poison."
Draven's eyes narrowed. "What exactly are you saying?" His voice carried a note of disbelief.
The medic met his gaze, her own laced with uncertainty. "What I'm saying, Your Highness, is that there was no injury to treat. She was merely unconscious."
"Is she still unconscious?" Draven asked, his voice calm but laced with curiosity.
"At this point, she's just sleeping," the head medic replied. "She should wake up any moment now." With a respectful nod, she dismissed herself, leaving Draven standing alone in the dimly lit hallway.
His fingers twitched slightly at his side. Is there something special about Majesty? He had planned to use her—but now, there were too many unknowns. And then there was him. If he was interested in Majesty, then things were far more complicated than he had anticipated.
He exhaled sharply, pushing aside the thoughts as he turned toward her room.
Meanwhile, I lay motionless on the soft, comfortable bed, unaware of my surroundings. But inside my mind, painful memories stirred, resurfacing like wounds torn open again.
"You truly hate me, don't you mother?" I had asked, my voice barely above a whisper. It was the night before my exile.
Across from me, her gaze was cold, unflinching. "Majesty, you have no idea how much I hate you." Her words cut deep, sharper than any blade. "If it weren't for you, he would still be alive. You exist only because of him."
Then she froze, as if realizing she had said too much.
I straightened, my pulse quickening. "Who are you talking about? Who would still be alive if not for me?"
But she said nothing.
Instead, she turned away, her voice hollow. "You have until tomorrow, Majesty."
And with that, she left me alone in the throne room.