Illaria’s mind raced. This is bad. This is really bad.
Her spiritual energy was nearly depleted, her body aching, wounds still fresh and burning beneath her skin. In her current state, escape was her only option—because fighting was impossible. Especially with Marcus standing there.
I need to leave. Now.
“Are you deaf?” Amarin’s voice snapped again. “Didn’t you hear me? Who are you? What are you doing here? And how did you manage to kill a Banshee of Venom?”
If Illaria had known when they arrived, she might have claimed the beast was already dead—someone else’s kill. But she had been lying openly on the riverbank for far too long, completely exposed, her defenses lowered. She hadn’t sensed any intruders because there was nothing left in her to sense with.
Worse—
Amarin hadn’t asked who killed the beast. He had asked how she did it.
Which meant there was a strong chance they had seen her fight. If she denied it and they already knew the truth, the lie would trap her deeper than honesty ever could. They would never let her walk away easily. So she chose her words carefully.
“I’m no one important enough for royalty like you to bother with,” Illaria replied evenly. “I simply set a trap. By luck—or heaven’s grace—the beast fell for it. That’s all.”
Amarin frowned, clearly unconvinced.
“Do you have any idea how dangerous this creature is?” he shot back. “For six months it has terrorized this region. No one has drawn water from the Ameys for miles. And you come here alone to face it?”
His questions came rapidly, one after another. “What is your spiritual level to even attempt this? Why risk your life? Aren’t you afraid?”
As he spoke, Illaria noticed his hand drift—slowly, deliberately—to the hilt of the short sword at his waist. Her instincts screamed.
He doesn’t trust me. And he won’t.
She could already see how this would go: polite words, a courteous invitation to the Tyria estate—and then confinement disguised as hospitality. A noble house never released suspicious outsiders who knew too much.
The longer I stay, the worse it gets.
She needed an answer that would stop the questioning without inviting more. So she gave him one.
“I’ve trained in the Kelzar for many years,” she said quietly. “I returned only days ago to find my younger brother gravely ill. A rare disease. The medicine is expensive. Hard to obtain.”
She met Amarin’s gaze, steady and unflinching. “If I don’t secure the money within a week,” she continued, “he will die.”
The silence that followed was heavy. It was the kind of story that couldn’t easily be dismissed—but also couldn’t be proven. And that, Illaria hoped, would buy her the time she desperately needed.
Illaria felt a sharp twist of guilt settle in her chest. She hated lying—especially like this. And worse, she was lying about her brother.
During the war, she had watched her elder brother, Edric, die in front of her. She had seen the fatal wounds carved into her father’s body—wounds so deep that she knew, even then, he would not survive. And later, she learned the truth: King Usher had delivered the final betrayal. Her father was dead. Her brother was dead. That much was undeniable.
But Robert…
Robert was different. Illaria had never seen him on the battlefield. Her father would never have allowed it—Robert wasn’t a warrior. He loved books, art, and quiet corners of the palace. Even during war, her father would have kept him hidden, protected. The enemy army might have killed him later. That possibility haunted her. But there was still a fragile, stubborn hope lodged deep in her heart that Robert had escaped. That he was hiding somewhere, alive, waiting. When she had been alone in Kelzar, broken and rebuilding herself piece by piece, she had clung to that thought like a lifeline.
It might have been false hope. But it was hope nonetheless.
“I want to save my brother’s life at any cost,” she continued quietly. “This was the only job that paid enough, and quickly. That’s why I took the risk. Now I need to hurry, my lord. Please excuse me.”
She turned and began to walk away from Amarin—and from Marcus. She had barely taken three steps.
“Hey! You brat!” a soldier barked from behind. “Who do you think you are? Do you expect us to believe that bullshit story? If your brother is ill, then why are you hiding your face behind a mask? And our lord isn’t done speaking to you. How dare you walk away? Do you have no respect?”
“Yes, my lord,” another soldier chimed in eagerly. “This person is extremely suspicious—and openly disrespectful. He should be punished.”
“I agree,” a third added. “Arrest him. Anyone hiding behind a mask like that is clearly up to no good.”
The voices piled on rapidly. Shouts. Accusations. Demands for punishment.Illaria stood still, her fists clenched at her sides.
She hadn’t even been allowed to respond. One man had sparked it, and the rest—afraid of being overlooked, desperate to impress—had followed blindly, like a herd charging toward fire. Each word chipped away at her patience, at the fragile restraint she had been holding together since the war.
Then one of them said it.
“You common people aren’t worth comparing to our lord. We don’t care if your brother dies—or if your entire family dies. Our lord’s orders matter more.”
Something inside Illaria snapped. Her family was dead because of people like this. Because of kingdoms that spoke of honor while slaughtering innocents. Because of soldiers who claimed obedience as an excuse to discard human lives.
Our lives don’t matter?
Why?
She turned back slowly, her eyes burning.
“Enough.”
Her voice cut through the noise like a blade.
“Who do you think you are to speak at all?” she demanded. “My lord was addressing me. How dare you interrupt and then paint me as the criminal?” Her breathing grew heavier as the words poured out.
“You want to know who I am?” She took a step forward.
“I’m a warrior. Fighting is the only thing I excel at. You know nothing about me. Nothing about the hell I’ve been through. The hell I’m still in. Or the hell I’m walking toward.”
Her voice trembled—not with fear, but with rage.
“All you know how to do is accuse. I told you the truth hoping you’d understand and let me go. And instead you say our lives don’t matter?” She laughed bitterly.
“You can’t even do your own jobs properly, yet you question me?”
Seven years of suppressed grief and fury surged upward.
“I was given a second chance at life,” she said hoarsely. “I’ve already lost everything. I can’t afford to lose again. If I do—then I might as well rot in the depths of hell.”
Her voice broke. A single tear slid down her cheek despite her will.
“I’m not afraid of death,” she whispered. “I welcome it. I want to see my family again. But I can’t face them until I finish what I must do.”
She gestured toward the corpse of the beast. “Take the damn Banshee if you want. Just let me go.”
She hated that she was crying. Hated that it was happening here—before these men. Before Marcus. For a moment, the world went silent.
Then a soldier laughed. A short, mocking sound. Another joined. Then another. Soon, the laughter spread among them, low and cruel, echoing across the riverbank as they looked at her like she was nothing more than a joke.
“Oh gods, brother, what a speech,” one of the soldiers sneered. “But why are you crying? Does it suit you to cry like a girl?”
“I think this guy’s a lunatic,” another laughed. “He started crying in the middle of his own story.”
“I don’t even think he killed the beast,” someone else added. “Probably just taking credit.”
The insults came one after another, careless and sharp.
A bent tail would always remain bent, Illaria thought bitterly. Would they still laugh like this if their families had been butchered? If their homes had burned? Probably not. And yet they felt entitled to judge her, to mock her grief, to call her mad.
Maybe I am a psycho, she thought coldly. But you men are worse beasts than the Banshee ever was. Her blood boiled. Rage churned in her chest, violent and suffocating, but she forced it down. Not today. She promised herself that. They would pay one day—but not here, not now.
Amarin finally raised a hand, his patience snapping.
“Enough,” he said sharply. “All of you, silence. Don’t forget—this person did kill the Banshee. His strength must be extraordinary. Strong enough to tear any one of you apart if he wished.”
The guards fell quiet at once.
Amarin turned to her, his tone noticeably calmer. “Brother, I am Amarin Tyria of the first noble house of the West. I apologize for my guards’ behavior. I promise each of them will receive twenty lashes upon our return.”
A murmur rippled through the soldiers.
“I do not know what you have endured,” Amarin continued, “but you have my condolences. I sincerely hope your brother recovers. If you give me an address, I will personally send guards to retrieve him and escort him to our finest physicians.”
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Illaria remained silent, her eyes unreadable behind the mask.
Amarin went on, his voice measured. “I am the future head of my family, and it is my duty to ensure the safety of this city. Your strength is admirable—but unchecked strength is also dangerous. I cannot allow you to leave without verifying your identity. Please come with me to our noble house, answer a few questions, and you will be free to go.”
Illaria exhaled slowly.
“My lord,” she said, “my brother cannot be found. His disease is highly communicable. I have sealed his location with a magical barrier—no one but me knows where he is. So I must refuse your offer.”
Amarin’s gaze hardened.
“In that case,” he replied, “accept my apologies as well. I will have to use force. And if you do not come willingly, letting you leave freely after questioning will no longer be an option.”
Illaria opened her mouth. “Then I—”
“There’s no need for arrests.” The voice cut cleanly through the tension. Marcus finally spoke.
Until now, he had remained silent, watching, unreadable. Illaria had wondered why. Now his words made her freeze, her breath catching just slightly as she turned toward him.
“Brother Marcus, what do you mean?” Amarin said sharply. “This man is suspicious. He’s wearing a mask, hiding his face. Who knows what his intentions are? I cannot believe his story unless I verify it myself. How can we simply let him go?”
Marcus stepped forward looking into Illaria’s eyes. He stopped directly in front of Illaria and looked straight into her eyes. Just for a second—but it was enough to make her uncomfortable, her breath hitching despite herself. Then he turned away from her and faced Amarin.
“You don’t need to worry, Brother Amarin,” Marcus said calmly. “I’m not letting him go. He’s coming back with me.”
Marcus was dressed in elegant purple robes, the fabric deep and rich, cinched at the waist by a lighter violet sash. Hanging from that sash, on his left side, was a delicate golden thread adorned with four small golden beads. Without hesitation, Marcus reached down, unhooked the thread, and held it out toward Illaria.
“Here, brother,” Marcus said. “Accept this.”
Illaria was already struggling to understand what was happening. Her mind lagged behind her body, and before she could fully process his words—or the meaning of the object—she found herself taking the thread from his hand.
The reaction was immediate.
The soldiers gasped audibly, several of them stepping back as if they had just witnessed something blasphemous. Faces drained of color. Eyes widened in disbelief. Amarin looked as though someone had struck him across the face; for a moment, he seemed incapable of speech.
Finally, he forced himself to breathe and spoke, his voice tight with alarm.
“Brother Marcus… What are you doing? You can’t be serious. Have you forgotten our Northern customs after spending all these years in the South?”
All these years in the South?
The thought barely registered before Marcus answered, his words carrying even greater weight.
“I haven’t forgotten our customs,” Marcus said evenly. “I know very well that a golden-beaded thread can only be given to a significant other.”
Illaria’s eyes widened behind her mask.
Significant other?
Her heart slammed violently against her ribs. If it were possible, it would have skipped several beats at once. Her thoughts spiraled.
What? What is he saying? Why did I take it? Damn it—
Before she could even begin to recover, Marcus turned again. Once more, his gaze met hers, steady and unflinching.
“As we approached the river,” he continued, “I sensed something that made my heart race. I rushed ahead of the group and arrived here minutes before anyone else. And I saw this brother fighting the Banshee.”
He paused briefly, then said, almost reverently, “He killed it beautifully.” Illaria’s grip on the thread tightened unconsciously.
“The moment I saw you fight,” Marcus went on, “I knew. I knew my soulmate was here—the one I have been searching for all these years. That is why I wish to recognize this person as my betrothed.”
A stunned silence fell over the riverbank.
“And that,” Marcus finished, turning fully toward Amarin, “is why I cannot allow you to take him away from me. He is mine.”
Marcus stepped forward, placing himself squarely between Illaria and Amarin, his back to her—as if shielding her from the world.
But Illaria didn’t notice— and even if she had, she couldn’t have cared at that moment. Her mind was a storm.
Soulmate?Betrothed?The one he had been looking for?He’s mine?
What in the gods’ name was happening?
Was Marcus… gay? Had he genuinely fallen for her thinking she was a man? Or was this some elaborate ploy? With every passing second, the situation grew more tangled, more absurd, more dangerous.
Amarin finally spoke, his voice strained. “Brother Marcus, I… I never knew that you were—” He paused, clearly reconsidering his words. “Never mind that. But you’ve only just met this person. How can you associate yourself with him so hastily? We have been friends for a long time. For the sake of that friendship, let me take him back to our house first. If he proves harmless, I will personally send him to you.”
Marcus did not hesitate.
“Amarin,” he said coldly, “it is for the sake of our old friendship that I agreed to help you deal with the Banshee—something the West should have handled on its own. For that same friendship, I refrained from killing your soldiers when they insulted my beloved, and I accepted your apology on their behalf.”
He paused, then added evenly, “Though when you return, make sure each of them receives fifty lashes.”
Amarin stiffened. “As for your offer to take him with you,” Marcus continued, “that is out of the question.”
“But brother Marcus—” Marcus cut him off sharply.
“Do not forget, Amarin, that apart from being your friend, I am also the current Emperor of the South.”
Illaria’s breath caught.
“This is a person I admire,” Marcus went on. “A person I have chosen. What do you think the world would say if the Southern Emperor could not even protect his beloved from being arrested by the son of a noble house? Would I not become a laughingstock?”
His voice hardened further. “I am taking responsibility for him. Do you not trust me? Or are you doubting the authority of the Southern Emperor?”
“No, brother Marcus, that’s not what I meant,” Amarin replied quickly—yet the hesitation remained clear on his face.
“That is exactly what you meant,” Marcus said. “The moment I gave him my thread, you should have understood. Yet you continue to question me.”
Marcus took a step forward. “So let me make this clear. I dare you, Amarin—and all your soldiers here—raise a sword to arrest my beloved, and you will face me.”
He unsheathed his blade in one smooth motion and leveled it toward Amarin and the guards behind him. “If you dare,” Marcus said quietly, “come at me. I will tear you apart.”
Even with his back to her, Illaria could feel it—the killing intent, sharp and absolute. She didn’t need to see his face to know that his eyes were glacial, his presence suffocating. A chill ran through everyone present.
The riverbank fell into silence. No one moved.
Illaria felt dizzy. The day had already drained her physically and emotionally, and now Marcus—who had apparently lost his mind and had turned had gay—was the Emperor of the South. But Illaria quickly connected dots. With her family gone, someone would have had to take the Southern throne. Someone strong enough to hold it. Marcus was probably chosen for it. Ironically, her enemy was her emperor now.
But as she collected herself, she saw no one moved an inch against Marcus. No one here was foolish enough to challenge him. Which meant he was going to take her with him.
Going back with Marcus wasn’t a suitable option at all. In fact, Illaria almost wished she had been arrested instead—at least then she would have had a chance to escape. Marcus, however, was not someone she could trick or outrun in her current state.
Since no one dared challenge him, Marcus turned back to her, smiling as though the tension hadn’t just suffocated the entire riverbank.
“So, brother,” he said lightly, “let’s go back now.”
Illaria stiffened. “Southern Emperor, I can’t go back with you. My brother is ill. Please let me return to him first. Once I’m done, I will find you.”
Marcus blinked, then smiled wider. “That’s exactly what I meant. Going back to your brother. You said he’s ill, didn’t you?” He tilted his head, entirely too pleased. “And since you’ve accepted my proposal and we are now engaged, your brother is my brother-in-law. Family. Of course I must visit him.”
“I never—” Illaria started, panic flaring. He was so irritating.
She had never accepted anything. She hadn’t even known that taking the thread meant a proposal. She was a southern princess—her culture had no such tradition. But the stunned expressions around her told her everything she needed to know. This custom was deeply ingrained in the North and the West.
And she had already claimed she had come back home.
If she denied knowing the tradition now, it would immediately mark her as an outsider. As Southern. With everyone already suspicious, that would be disastrous.
So she forced herself to breathe and chose her words carefully.
“Your Majesty,” she said, lowering her voice, “when you handed me the beaded thread, I was startled by its brilliance. I took it without realizing its meaning. Only after you explained its significance did I understand what I had done.”
She paused, then continued evenly, though her fingers trembled.
“In that moment, I thought remaining by your side would mean a life of comfort and luxury, and that is why I stayed silent. But now that I have had time to think, I realize I cannot accept this.”
She lifted her chin. “I neither admire you nor am I interested in men. Please take back your thread and honor someone else with it.”
She opened her right palm and held the beaded thread out to him. Marcus didn’t look offended. If anything, he looked amused.
“Well, brother,” he said with a soft chuckle, “I wonder what kind of person it would take to please you. Here I am—the Southern Emperor himself—asking for marriage, and you reject me so easily.”
He leaned closer. “At least give it some thought.”
Then his tone shifted, gentle but final. “Besides, I’ve already given you my thread. I can’t take it back.”
Illaria’s heart sank.
“Threads can’t be reclaimed once they’re accepted,” Marcus continued calmly. “You should have thought of all this before taking it.” His smile sharpened, just slightly.
“Now,” he said, “you’ll have to accept it.”
Over the years, Marcus might have changed—from a straight man to, perhaps, a cut-sleeve fellow—but that smile on his face was exactly the same as it had been seven years ago. Illaria remembered it clearly. He always smiled like that when he had won an argument against her. It had irritated her then, and it irritated her just as much now.
No, she told herself sharply. I need to escape.Now that Marcus had cornered her, she would have to use his own tactics against him—and run.
The discussion had dragged on long enough for her breathing to steady. She had recovered a sliver of strength. Not nearly enough to defeat Marcus, but enough that if she could buy herself even a small head start, she could flee. An idea formed in her mind. It was dangerous—reckless, even—but there was no other path left.
She spoke again, her tone carefully measured. “Emperor Marcus, you are a noble man. Everyone here has heard of your talent and renown. A man like you appears once in a thousand.”
Marcus raised a brow. “Enough flattery. Get to your point.”
“I do not wish to come with you,” Illaria said plainly. “Even if you force me, I will try to escape at every opportunity. However—” she paused, letting the word hang, “—I will follow you willingly if you can grant me one thing.”
Marcus’s eyes sharpened. “And what is it that you want?”
“You said you were drawn to me because of my strength—because I killed the Banshee,” she continued. “You haven’t even seen my face. I might be hideous, yet without hesitation you named me your significant other. That tells me you value strength and character over beauty and wealth. Am I wrong?”
Marcus answered without hesitation. “You’re not.”
“Then hear me,” Illaria said. “If you choose me for my strength, I also deserve the right to judge yours.”
Amarin exploded. “Have you lost your mind? He’s the Southern Emperor! Across Merwan he’s known as the War Beast!”
Neither Marcus nor Illaria spared him a glance.
“My request is simple,” Illaria continued steadily. “Fight me. If you win, I will acknowledge you as a worthy warrior and follow you of my own will. But if I win, you will take back your thread and let me walk away freely.”
“Brother Marcus!” Amarin protested. “You’re the emperor—don’t entertain this nonsense!”
Marcus silenced him with a raised hand. “If this is what it takes to earn your hand,” he said calmly, “then I accept.”
He studied her for a moment. “But you’ve exhausted your strength fighting the Banshee. We can fight another day.”
“No,” Illaria replied instantly. “The fight happens here. Now.” Her voice hardened. “Whatever the outcome, I will not accuse you of taking advantage. You have my word. And if you refuse—then let me walk away at this moment.”
Marcus’s gaze lingered on her, thoughtful. Then he nodded.
“Very well. But I am still the emperor, and I must be fair,” he said. “If I fought you at full strength now, I’d make a mockery of myself and my title. So hear this: I will not use my sword, nor my spiritual energy against you. Only my body. If I win under these conditions, you will have no room left to bargain.”
Illaria met his eyes, unflinching. “I accept. Just remember—whatever the outcome, you must honor it.”