Traitor!

This bed was too comfortable. A sinking, cloud-like luxury that her body—traitorous thing that it was—almost welcomed. 

For one precious second, she let herself just... sink.

Then, the aches made themselves known.

Her stomach burned, her limbs felt weak, and her head was hazy—like she’d been drugged.

Elisa’s eyes snapped open.

Her gaze darted around the unfamiliar room. Lavish. Gilded furnishings. Velvet curtains. Flickering candlelight.

A prison of luxury.

She shifted under the covers, wincing. Her body ached like she had been carried roughly for miles. Had they dosed her with something to make the transition easier? That had to be it.

Her last memory was still clear as day.

The villagers had bid her farewell. The sacrificial bride.

That was what she was, wasn’t it? The one given away to appease the Count, and by in large the rest of the demonkin army from ransacking their sacred lands—more than the human Empire already had.

Her people had prepared her, dressed her, and sent her forward like a lamb to slaughter. One of the few times she didn’t mind being buttered up.

It was the plan, after all. Her’s, and a group of close aides.

To play along the pretty damsel. To bide her time, gain his trust. And when the moment came—she would kill him.

Her hand moved, instinctively reaching for her bag.

Nothing. Was she found out already?

She tried again, searching. The weight of the dagger should have been there, pressed against her belongings.

In fact, her traveller’s bag was nowhere to be found.

Figures. She didn’t expect anything less. Autonomy wasn’t on the cards for being a political prize, especially for the demonkin.

Her fingers curled. She could handle this. She had to.

But before she could spiral further, the blanket tugged.

A small weight scrambled onto the bed.

Elisa’s breath caught.

A kobold.

It was barely the size of her head, covered in dark fur with golden eyes too large for its face.

She should have screamed. Should have thrown it off. But she was in no position to do either.

Then—to her horror—the kobold spoke.

"She is awake! Awake! Human warm, not cold anymore!"

Elisa froze.

Her voice was hoarse. “You… can speak Common?”

The kobold puffed its chest. "Of course! You taught everything!"

What.

Before she could further process that nonsense, the door creaked open. A woman entered.

Elisa resisted the temptation to spring her mouth agape.

A human.

Not a prisoner. Not a captive. A maid.

The woman sighed in relief. “Thank the High Lords. We thought you were a goner.”

Elisa narrowed her eyes. “How long was I asleep?”

“You don’t remember?”

Act nonchalant. Act nonchalant! “Let’s see… I remember a terrible deal, a long night, and now I’m waking up in absurdly expensive sheets with a kobold on my lap. Either I lost my mind, or I’m missing a few pages from my story.”

The maid laughed, arms crossing. “Well, that sounds about right. Except the ‘losing your mind’ part. I’d say it’s still very much intact—debatably. A mind great as yours would resist even nature itself. A wonder, too. The poison had ravaged your figure for quite a while.”

“Flatter me more, why don’t you?”

The woman pressed a hand against her forehead. "You deserve everything and more, after all you have done for us. Sometimes, I think I'm dreaming, working in Greatcliff Manor. Unthinkable ten years prior. Still, they pay well. I would have been beside myself had you gone down the Obsidian Steps."

“My efforts? I just got here.”

"Well, it is a matter of perspective, I suppose. But you have done more than enough."

A pause.

Elisa’s eyes softened. "You are certain they didn’t coerce you?"

"No, nothing of the sort. You made sure of it."

But before she could press further—the air changed.

A presence loomed in the doorway.

He entered.

Elisa had spent years imagining Kael Blac’sill.

A monster in excess. A man who thrived on wealth, decadence, and suffering.

But what stood before her was a man in ruin.

He was sickly.

What might otherwise have been the peak of masculinity was the gauntest figure. Paler than even the undead should be.

Yet his eyes—sharp, knowing—were as piercing as ever.

He was looking at her. Too closely.

"My love."

Elisa flinched. The nerve.

"Finally in the waking world again. Don't worry. We will find the culprit that did this," he continued, voice smooth. "Framing it as a suicide—at least be original! What do they take me for?"

Kael sighed, shaking his head. Then he lifted something from his belt.

A dagger.

Her dagger.

Elisa stopped breathing.

She knew it. The weight. The craftsmanship. The one the rebels had given her.

It had been meant to kill him.

Kael twirled it between his fingers, a smirk curling at his lips. “A delicate thing. Small, yet formidable. But if this had been meant to finish the job, why leave it behind? A foolish miscalculation—or perhaps a ghost with frayed nerves.” His gaze flicked back to her. “It’s laced with potent magic, I’ll grant them that. But against me? A clever trick, nothing more. And surely, no price to pay is too great—especially for one such as yourself.”

She couldn’t move. Surely, he was toying with her!

Quick, think of a response—“Well, you look like death yourself."

He exhaled through his nose. "I like to think of it as an example of my commitment to you."

“That bad, huh?”

Kael hummed, tilting his head, his gaze assessing. "Yes… potent, certainly. But lacking in elegance. Crude. Unrefined. Not unlike the usual concoctions our Great Army’s potion masters produce when left unchecked." 

His fingers tapped idly against the hilt of his scabbard. "Had this reached the battlefield, its creator would have been made an example of before it had the chance to spread. No doubt our mutual friend hoped to frame the fledgling human populace—baiting me into turning against them. A predictable ploy. I won’t entertain it."

A grumble from his throat. "Still... Purpleshade is a rare poison. Not many undead can survive its potency. Thus…" he gestured vaguely at himself, "my current state."

Elisa exhaled. He seemed convinced of his story already. Time to bury the knife. "As if things couldn’t get worse. An assassination attempt right before the wedding? Solely relying on you to stop it? A test, perhaps?"

"A tedious one. And when it comes to you, one I have no patience for."

She knew she should've shut up. But she couldn't resist. "That’s a roundabout way of admitting you were not up to the task." Kael arched a brow, but she pressed on. "I was under the impression that the Counts of the High Lords were meant to be flawless extensions of their kind. Each their Finger of the East. And yet, here you are."

“Guilty as charged.” At the very least, his masculinity seemed non-fragile. "A rare affliction, I assure you. Only in the presence of my dear, beautiful wife would I find myself fretting and stumbling so."

Despite herself, she grinned. It was almost charming. “Getting a little ahead of yourself, aren’t you? If you keep this up, we’ll make quite the spectacle. People might start whispering—suspecting we were political plants, already hopelessly in love from the start.”

All of a sudden—he tilted his head. Then frowned. Then furrowed. It was like a switch. Was it something she said?

"Dear, how old are you?"

Elisa blinked.

“You should know. I am your to-be-wed.”

He forced herself to stand a little straighter. “Enlighten me. I’d like to make sure the humans didn’t give me false information.”

He studied her, waiting.

She hesitated.

Then—"Nineteen."

Kael stumbled backwards.

For the first time in this entire conversation, he faltered.

And then, when he finally spoke—his voice was quieter. Less controlled.

"No, Elisa. The Purpleshade has a rare… side effect."

Her stomach churned. 

"We have been wed for five years, going on six. You are twenty-three."

Elisa’s blood ran cold.