Heavy footsteps echoed across the black marble hall. Candles danced wildly from the wind seeping through the towering windows. At the end of the corridor, seated upon a throne of obsidian, was a man—seven feet tall, with shoulder-length black hair and glowing crimson eyes that could scorch anyone who dared meet them too long. The air smelled faintly of sulfur and expensive incense, creating an intoxicating contrast of danger and luxury.

Azarion Morvain. Supreme ruler of the Kingdom of Nerium—half demon, half nightmare. Even from a distance, the heat of his presence radiated across the cold marble floor, and the faint sound of distant hellfire crackled between the walls.

To his left, his concubines stood in line. Draped in sheer fabrics that revealed more than they concealed, heads bowed, breathing in sync like a well-trained chorus awaiting their cue to satisfy their master’s desires. Some had already borne his offspring—children of hell raised without love, only for power. Their expensive perfume clung to the air like a sweet poison.

But Azarion's eyes were not on them. Not even for a second. At the base of his throne stairs, stood a girl. Not dressed in courtly silks or laced temptation, but a plain white robe—unbent, unbroken, her posture radiating defiance in a room where everyone else trembled.

The only woman he had never forced to kneel. The only one who had never bowed. The only... wife.

“I won’t let you touch them tonight,” she said, voice sharp and steady despite the tremble in her hands that betrayed her courage. Yet it thundered through the hall louder than the roars of hellfire that occasionally erupted from the palace depths.