But it never ended well, as always.
Even though Valerian tried to take Stella's advice—to understand his family—he couldn't. Not when he discovered what they had done while he was gone.
They had never looked for him when he was missing. Instead, they looked happy—almost as if they could celebrate now that he was gone. The thought made Valerian sick to his stomach. Disgust filled him until it consumed every fiber of his being.
And so, he made a choice.
To kill every one of his family members with his own two hands and become the Emperor of Tartagalia.
It took him five years to plan, to gather enough knights and followers to ignite a revolution. When the time came, he executed it with ruthless precision. He killed the late Emperor with his own hands, and he did the same with his siblings and relatives, one by one.
That was how Valerian became the youngest Emperor in Tartagalia's history. At the age of twenty-four, he had achieved everything he set out to do. His plan was complete. His vengeance fulfilled.
But in the silence that followed, there was still a void in his chest—one he could not fill.
So, he crossed the ocean once again, landing on the shores of Nexus.
But this time, he was stopped by patrolling knights.
"Who are you!?" one of them demanded.
"You cannot just enter Nexus shores!" another shouted.
Valerian's patience was thinning, but he only smiled.
"I am here to see Princess Stella," he declared.
The two knights looked at each other, confused. But before they could speak, another voice cut through the air.
"Why do you wish to see me?"
They all turned, and there she was—Princess Stella.
Clad in light armor that gleamed faintly beneath the sun, her presence was enough to silence even the restless waves crashing against the shore. The sword at her side glimmered like it belonged there, as though forged for no other hand but hers. Her hair, once braided in his memory, now cascaded freer, touched by the wind, every strand catching the light as if the heavens themselves wished to crown her.
Valerian's breath caught.
It had been years, yet time had done nothing but sharpen her into something more radiant, more divine. The expressionless girl he once knew had grown into a woman whose poise commanded every gaze—yet it was her eyes, still that piercing blue, that unraveled him. Eyes that could cut through armor sharper than any blade, and yet, for him, once softened with warmth.
Valerian felt it again—that warmth in his chest. The warmth he thought he had buried beneath blood, conquest, and crowns. The warmth that no victory had ever given him.
His voice faltered, trembling between longing and disbelief.
"Stel—"
"What made the Emperor of Tartagalia come here personally just to see me?" Stella's voice was cold, formal. There was no trace of the warmth he remembered.
Valerian's chest tightened. His lips pressed into a thin line.
"What are you—"
"My lord, I believe that woman is being disrespectful to you," Navea hissed, her sword already drawn.
Valerian shot her a glare. "Stop it."
Then he looked back at Stella, but her gaze was flat—distant. As if he was nothing more than a nuisance in her eyes.
"Please leave right away," she said.
Her voice was calm, cool as moonlight, yet it struck him harder than any blade.
But Valerian couldn't. The weight in his chest was unbearable, a storm clawing to be set free.
He didn't understand it—was it love, obsession, or madness? All he knew was that he could not walk away. Not from her. Not from the only light that had ever pierced his darkness.
"You'll have to chase me away," he muttered, his voice low, trembling with defiance and yearning. He drew his sword, the steel singing in the air.
And so, the clash began.
Sparks flew as steel kissed steel, the air alive with the rhythm of their blades. Yet for Valerian, each strike felt hollow. His arms remembered how to kill, but his heart rebelled.
How could he ever raise his weapon against the girl who once looked at him without fear? Against the girl who, with nothing but a gaze, had once made him believe he wasn't a monster?
His blade wavered. His guard slipped. His hesitation was his undoing.
And in that fleeting heartbeat, Stella's sword found him.
Her strike was merciless—swift, clean. The blade carved across his face, and with it, she left him a scar. A mark not just of steel, but of her rejection. The wound would fade, but the line upon his flesh—her mark—was eternal. Stella's gift, branded into him that day.
"Please leave," she said, her voice cold as winter steel, standing over him like judgment itself.
"YOU BITCH—!" Navea roared, her sword flashing with fury.
"Stop." Valerian's command cut sharper than her blade, even as his blood ran down his cheek.
The crimson dripped, hot and heavy, yet strangely, he welcomed it. The sting was almost sweet, a twisted thrill—for it was pain she had given him. Proof that she had touched him, even if through violence.
And so he smiled. A smile fractured, unhinged. Obsession bared its teeth upon his lips.
"I'll return soon… and take you, my dear Princess." His vow spilled into the air, not a promise, but a curse.
Stella's gaze did not waver. Expressionless, she looked upon him as though he were already a ghost. Footsteps echoed along the walls—the Nexus knights closing in. She exhaled a weary sigh as Navea and Valerian retreated to their fleet, swallowed once more by the sea.
And then they were gone.
But absence is never silence. For months, for years, the Tartagalian fleets haunted the Nexus shores like vultures circling prey. Each strike, each raid, a tightening snare.
And all of it bled into this—
the war that now devours the present day.
The battlefield stilled as Valerian's shadows poured forth, a living tide of darkness that twisted and clawed toward Stella. He moved like a phantom, each step sending ripples of suffocating dread.
Stella answered not with voice but with motion. Her hand lifted, fingers spreading, and the sea itself seemed to rise in obedience. Water surged, wrapping her blade, her body shimmering in a veil of light that turned every droplet into a star. Where his magic devoured, hers illuminated.
He lunged—darkness exploding from his sword, time distorting with each strike, making his blade appear in countless places at once. Stella's body arched backward, her foot sliding in the sand, her sword lifting fluidly like a dancer's arm. The water around her coiled, deflecting each phantom slash, answering his ferocity with precision.
A sweep of his hand unleashed black tendrils that tore through the ground. Stella spun, her sword tracing arcs that left trails of glowing water, slicing through shadow, her body's rhythm like waves crashing against rocks—unyielding, eternal.
Valerian pressed harder, his aura deepening into a suffocating abyss, his strikes faster, heavier, warped by time itself. Stella's breath came sharp, her body trembling, yet she met him with grace: stepping into his shadow, twisting her blade upward, unleashing a cascade of light-infused water that burst like a tidal wave, pushing him back.
He staggered, only for a grin to twist across his lips as he rushed again, shadows coiling tighter. She steadied her stance, eyes narrowed, her body poised like a lighthouse amidst the storm.
Their swords met—light against dark, water against void—and the impact was deafening. Sand burst outward, sea spray erupted, the world itself seemed to recoil.
Every movement was their dialogue.
His desperation.
Her defiance.
His hunger.
Her resolve.
It was not words but will, carved into every swing, every step, every breath.
Stella's breath steadied, though her body trembled. She closed her remaining eye, letting it bleed with light until even the ocean itself seemed to pulse with her heartbeat. She knew this would be the end of her sight—her last offering to the kingdom, to her sister, to everything she swore to protect.
Her aura bloomed, radiant and devastating, water and light entwining like a thousand suns scattering into waves. The air quivered, the sand beneath her feet liquefied, and the sea rose like a cathedral of glass around her.
Valerian felt it—the beauty, the terror. His body shook, not from weakness, but from awe. The shadows around him writhed, thick as smoke, endless as the void. He drew them tighter, sharper, until his form was wreathed in pure darkness. Every heartbeat echoed with time itself bending, seconds breaking apart under the weight of his magic.
They stood as monsters—her brilliance against his abyss.
The moment their powers collided, the battlefield ceased to breathe.
Light cascaded downward in floods, each droplet burning like a falling star. Darkness surged upward, swallowing the world, turning the horizon into a mouth of night. When the two forces struck, they did not simply clash—they sang, a chorus of destruction and creation.
From the distance, Zuleika's heart nearly tore from her chest. She clawed forward, but Aquila's arm held her back, anchoring her against the violent winds that howled from the clash.
"Let me go! My sister—she'll die!" Zuleika cried, tears burning her eyes.
Aquila's own jaw clenched, but her grip did not loosen. "If you go near them now… you'll be nothing but ash."
Zuleika shook her head violently, her voice breaking. "I can't just watch! That's my sister—Aquila, please!"
But the storm of magic drowned her words.
The sea roared, caught between them. The sky itself cracked, bleeding gold and black. Knights and soldiers alike fell to their knees, blinded, their ears ringing as though heaven and hell had split open above them.
Stella's sword became the axis of her will, every swing carving water into rivers of light. Valerian's hands tore through the air, shadows blooming into storms, time shattering with each strike. Where her magic flowed, his devoured. Where his devoured, hers blazed brighter.
And in that maelstrom, Valerian smiled through the fear. Beautiful, he thought. The more she burned, the more his heart caved into obsession.
Their duel was not just battle—it was a symphony of ruin, one that would decide not only the shore of Nexus, but the fate of everyone who dared to witness.