Crown Consort Liora stood quietly in her quarters, tucked away in the eastern wing behind the old stone warehouse. The spot gave her a perfect view—both of the palace grounds and far beyond the outer walls. It was a routine she’d followed for years, one of the few moments where she could steady her breath and silence the noise inside her mind.A breeze swept through the open arches, brushing against her pale blue robe as she stood in silence, arms crossed, lips slightly parted. She looked outward, as always—watching, waiting, observing. Her mind rarely rested.Then, something caught her eye.A shadowed figure, moving near the Queen’s quarters.Something about the silhouette made her breath hitch in her throat.“Eyla,” she said softly, without looking back.Her handmaid was already standing nearby, as always. Loyal. Sharp. Trained to know when her mistress needed something without asking. Without a word, Eyla stepped forward and handed her the long bronze eyeglass Liora often used duri

The morning sun filtered into Asher Blackmoor’s chamber through tall, arched windows. The light fell across stone floors and weathered tapestries, each one bearing the marks of Drakemont's history—battles, beasts, and bloodlines woven into the very fabric of the estate. Heavy furniture carved from ancient darkwood lined the room, polished with care but never stripped of their old-world sharpness. The space was rich, commanding, and steeped in power. A master’s quarters in every sense.Asher stood near the window in his nightrobe, hands folded behind him, posture regal even in stillness. The robe hung loosely, but nothing about him was at ease. His gaze was fixed on the Blackmoor fields that stretched across the horizon—rolling land owned and defended by his family for generations. Acres of strength, legacy, and sacrifice.But his mind wasn’t on the land.His thoughts drifted to the palace. To whispers. To a Queen’s dangerous touch.A knock at the door pulled him back.“Come in,” he sa

It had been two days since Morgana’s confrontation with Asher.She hadn’t spoken much since then—not out of bitterness, but distance. A quiet understanding passed between them, though left unsaid: Asher had refused, and that refusal had cost more than he realized. Only Morgana seemed to understand the weight of that decision.But life in Drakemont never slowed for emotion.At Eleanor’s urging, Asher agreed to visit the royal spring bath tucked at the outskirts of the city, nestled in the shadow of a mountain where water spilled endlessly from the cliffs. The secluded retreat wasn’t open to the public—only royals, high-ranking officials, and those with inherited privilege. Still, Eleanor had made the arrangements. She insisted that after everything, Asher needed time to decompress. To breathe. To just… be.He had reluctantly agreed.Now, they were en route.The car hummed quietly along the cobbled road. Morgana sat in the passenger seat, silent, her gaze fixed on the road ahead. Asher

Now, everyone was watching as Asher helped the boy. The only thing going through their minds at that moment was like, who is this civilian trying to help this boy? I mean, even though you’re trying to be nice, are you too dumb to overlook the fact that he’s actually infected? But then, there was nobody bold enough to step up or challenge Asher.The boy shakily raised his hand and leaned onto Asher as Asher helped him up slowly. It was obvious the boy couldn’t stand straight, so Asher placed his hand around his neck. People were more shocked now that Asher was in close contact with the boy. They could only watch as this unfolded, even more disgusted and confused.The boy used his left hand to hold his stomach, with his right hand resting on Asher, slumped. But Asher held on to him.Morgana started to edge closer, wanting to help. When she got to them, Asher asked her to open the car door. Morgana immediately rushed and opened it, and Asher helped the boy inside. The driver was ready to

The grand hall of Drakemont’s royal court stood in silent splendor, its tall, arched ceilings casting shadows that flickered with the morning sun. Ornate carvings of dragons and phoenixes wrapped around blackened columns, while silk banners in crimson and gold fluttered faintly in the breeze that filtered through narrow stained windows. At the far end of the hall, elevated atop a tiered platform, sat the ruler’s throne—majestic yet simple, a symbol of restrained authority rather than opulence.The ruler himself sat upright, robed in deep silver and green, the colors of Drakemont’s crest. He was flanked by eunuchs in flowing white robes, their faces composed and unreadable as they quietly observed. Below, in two structured rows, stood the ministers—divided not by official order, but by invisible lines of allegiance.Those in red robes—the high-ranking ministers of finance, health, law, and foreign trade—occupied the front lines. Their garments shimmered with golden embroidery and long