The royal wedding was magnificent. The grand hall was adorned with cascading white wisteria and silver silks that shimmered beneath the glow of a thousand candles. Petals dusted the marble floors as guests moved in synchronized, sweeping waltzes to the orchestra's rhythm.
Everyone was celebrating—dancing and singing in a collective whirlwind of joy. Alastaira, however, stood apart, consumed by a quiet, seething rage. In an act of silent defiance, she chose to wear black—a stark, mourning contrast to the vibrant sea of celebration.
Despite her resentment, she had been commanded to dance, and so she did—though reluctance bled through every measured step.
She wore one of her most provocative gowns, a design that clung to her form and emphasized every curve with deliberate intent. A delicate black veil concealed her eyes, swollen from a long night of silent grief.
The Sovereign and his new wife, Lyra, walked down the center aisle toward the throne. For a brief moment, Alastaira's gaze locked with Lyra's.
Lyra's emerald eyes were cold—unsettling in their stillness. When she smiled, a chill crept down Alastaira's spine. Something was wrong. She could feel it, though she could not yet name it. In that moment, she felt like prey—like a creature being led calmly toward slaughter.
It felt like a fever dream she was desperate to wake from. Darius did not even look at her, discarding her as easily as her friends had warned he would. Still, she refused to accept it. Her only remaining hope lay in the life growing inside her—a fragile, desperate belief that it might yet secure her place.
She steadied herself with that thought, clinging to it as she moved through the motions of the celebration.
After the ceremony, she knew exactly where to go. Her steps were precise, guided by paths she had long ago memorized.
The ancient stone corridor was dim, lit only by flickering oil lamps and the eerie red glow filtering through a stained-glass window above an imposing door.
The door itself was a masterpiece of intricate gears and bronze clockwork. A small plaque bore its title: THE KEEPER OF SECRETS.
She raised her hand and knocked—once, twice, then once more. Before she could complete the sequence, the door swung open.
A man stood before her—sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and a deep bronze complexion. His dark, shoulder-length hair fell in soft waves, framing a face marked by straight, heavy brows. His almond-shaped eyes, a striking amber-gold, fixed on her with steady intensity.
Even through the haze of her heartbreak, Alastaira found Lucian excruciatingly handsome. No matter how many times she came here, she never grew accustomed to his presence. When their eyes met, her pulse betrayed her.
"Welcome, Lady Alastaira," Lucian said, his voice low and resonant. He bowed slightly. "It is always a pleasure to have such beauty grace this… dusty workshop."
"I am not here for pleasantries, Lucian," she replied coldly, brushing past him.
He closed the clockwork door behind her, the gears clicking softly into place. "I know why you are here." His gaze softened as it fell upon her hidden eyes. "But I cannot help you this time. Alchemy does not bend to every desire—and it does not rule over the human heart."
"I gave you what I could," he continued quietly. "Beauty that draws every gaze. A voice that lingers in memory. Even the illusion woven into your performances… but this?" He shook his head. "This is forbidden."
Her patience snapped. She seized him by the collar. "Then tell me," she demanded, her voice low and shaking, "is it possible—or not?"
Lucian gently wrapped his hands around hers, not to remove them, but to hold them there. His gaze lingered on her face—on the woman who could unravel him without effort. He knew exactly who she was, what she was, and still… he chose her, every time.
For a brief, dangerous moment, his eyes dropped to her lips.
She noticed. Her heart thundering in her chest. And she stepped back.
"Fine," she said, her voice hardening. "I'll do it myself.".
Lucien didn't notice her sneaking one of his vials in her sleave. She turned and left without another word. Behind her, Lucian exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair as the door sealed shut. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to believe she might come back—that one day she might see him, truly see him.
The thought lingered as he sank onto the worn blue mattress, surrounded by the cold familiarity of his prison, every tool and creation a reminder of what he could control—and what he could not.
The workshop stretched wide beneath a vaulted stone ceiling. Pale light bled through a high, arched window, illuminating drifting dust and thin vapors that coiled lazily through the air. Thick ivy clung to the glass, casting tangled shadows across the cracked floor.
Dark wooden shelves lined the walls, crowded with hundreds of glass flasks. Some held fine powders, others liquids that glowed faintly from within. Bundles of dried herbs and heavy brass spheres hung from iron chains above, swaying almost imperceptibly.
Massive bronze gears were embedded within the stone walls, turning with a slow, deliberate rhythm. Their motion fed into rotating metal maps of the stars mounted near the ceiling.
Across the heavy workbenches, copper pipes and glass tubes twisted through stacks of ancient, leather-bound books. Their covers were etched with silver symbols that pulsed faintly in the dim light. The air carried the scent of bitter herbs and aged parchment.
Lucian jolted upright as the distant shouts of Enforcers echoed through the corridor. A violent pounding struck the door—loud enough to rattle the gears in their sockets, the clockwork frame groaning under the force.
He flung the door open. Enforcers stood gathered, weapons drawn, as the Arch Commander stepped forward from among them.
"Lucian, you are condemned for treason against the Sovereign's wife," he declared. "Seize him."
Lucian stood bewildered. "Treason? On what grounds?" No one answered. They dragged him to the throne room and threw him before the enraged Sovereign. It was then he saw her: Alastaira, half-hidden in the crowd, watching him with a triumphant smile.
A surge of emotion hit him, sharpening into a cold, uncontrollable wrath.
Darius stood. "Lucian, I gave you rank and power. I allowed your alchemy in this city when it was forbidden, believing it was the key to our revolution. In return, you tried to poison my Lyra."
"I would never—"
Darius cut him off. "You are sentenced to death for high treason."
The crowd erupted in cheers. Lucian went distant, the noise fading into a hum inside his head. He had been betrayed by the person he had desired most. He could no longer contain it.
He rose to his feet, a sudden pulse of energy throwing the nearby guards back. He gripped his heavy iron chains; they glowed white-hot before dissolving into ash.
"So this is the price for my good deeds?" he asked, his voice resonant and unnaturally steady. The enforcers closed in, forming a circle with their weapons raised.
The crowd remained frozen as Lucian vanished. Alastaira ignored the chaos, slipping away toward the workshop. She swept every vial and book she could find into her satchel and fled before the guards could secure the room.
She studied the grimoires until she knew them by heart, yet the secrets to binding a man's heart remained hidden. As the months passed and her belly grew, she felt herself withering. Her skin grew sallow and she aged years in a matter of weeks, all while Darius's indifference turned to total neglect.
When her time finally came, she laboured in ragged gasps. Despite the pain, she felt a desperate joy, certain that the birth of a royal heir would restore her status. But the midwives exchanged looks of alarm, and Darius's face twisted with fury when they saw the child.
The midwives placed the newborn in her arms and fled the room. The baby had blood-red hair and eyes of golden red. Her skin was light bronze, flecked with light freckles.
"THAT," Darius said, his voice a venomous rasp she had never heard, "IS NOT MINE"
By his command, she was exiled from Zenon that same night before she could even say a word and explain herself. Or more fairly, she was sent back to Aris and met her destiny on the same road she took at avoid it.