Heavy footsteps echo through the half-empty hall, reverberating against the walls and lingering in the air, carrying with them a true sense of dread and the scent of dried blood.

Ronan is furious. No—furious doesn't quite capture it. He is consumed by rage, his hand, wrapped in a pristine white glove, convulsively tightening around the hilt of the sword hanging at his waist.

This cursed wedding, forced upon him by the emperor. And this girl who gives off the impression of being simple-minded and useless. The entire situation enrages him.

He is the sole contender for the throne. The title of crown prince rests upon his broad shoulders like a bloodstained mark of a struggle where there can be only one victor. Ronan Skyfrost. Almost an emperor. He is finally just one step away from achieving his only goal—his passion and his love. Because in this world, nothing is stronger than his thirst for power.

**

The castle weighs upon her like a gilded cage in which she has found herself trapped against her will. The name Crawford now feels more like a sentence than a legacy.

Marriage to the heir to the throne, the future emperor—an honor for any noble lady. But she had spent her entire life fighting to be free, to be independent from her family and title, to be remembered not as the emperor’s wife but as a person in her own right.

It was suffocating.

Navigating the endless labyrinths of the castle, she found herself in the eastern tower. For some reason, His Highness, Crown Prince Ronan, had never shown her this place during the welcoming tour, and here, an unpleasantly sharp cold seeped into the air.

Beyond the heavy oak door, there was no trace of the flickering oil lamps that illuminated the rest of the castle by evening.

A small window near the ceiling revealed a pale yellow moon. The snowfall had ceased, and the sky had finally cleared, but the faint light was hardly enough to guide her path.

Some secrets are meant to remain forever hidden. Yet whether it was a lack of self-preservation or pure curiosity, something urged her to open the door.

The rotten door handle broke off with a sickening creak, crumbling with rust and termites as it fell to the floor, but the door did not budge.

Digging her finger into the newly formed gap, she peered inside, and in the dim glow of the cramped chamber, she saw something she never should have.

In the center of the room, surrounded by fading blue flames, stood an altar. There was no mistaking it—this was a place of magic. Magic that was forbidden in the Empire.

Without thinking of the consequences, she bolted, running blindly through the corridors until she crashed into something soft and chilling.

"My dear, what has frightened you so?" Ronan’s face was adorned with something resembling a warm smile. He was utterly convinced that this woman had already fallen under the spell of his flawless mask of princely charm and had let down his guard.

"Are you alright?"