Chapter 51 - You'll be MINE and MINE ALONE

Cillian's gaze, sharp enough to draw blood, locked onto Liara's, the air between them crackling with unspoken malevolence.

WHAT THE GODDAMN HELL DO YOU EVEN COMPREHEND, LIARA. Every wretched time I dragged your worthless soul from the pits of your self-made hell, every BLOODY time I bled for your pathetic excuses - do you have ANY IDEA what kind of nightmare I endured because of YOU. Remember when I laid bare my rotting soul about the abuse I suffered, thinking you'd be my salvation. But no - you played the damned victim, always slithering out like the venomous snake you are, because you never learned what it means to feel ANYTHING real. That mask you wear - that shit-stained mask molded from daddy's expectations and those worthless novels you worship - it's eaten away whatever humanity you had until there's nothing left but a hollow fucking shell.

I put EVERYTHING on the line for our past - my sanity, my future, my very existence. And when you casually tossed me aside like yesterday's garbage, I STILL protected your worthless hide. But you - YOU THREW YOURSELF at that gutless husband of yours, and that's when I saw the truth of my catastrophic mistake. Did your stone-cold heart ever consider what I wanted. Someone to actually CONNECT with. To breathe the same poisoned air. To walk the same cursed earth. Like you do with your precious daddy and that pathetic secret lover you thought I didn't know about. Oh, I KNEW - and I watched you destroy him just like you destroyed every godforsaken thing you touched.

That bastard I got you married to - what kind of brain-dead MORON accepts damaged goods and still pours out his heart. You hit the motherfucking jackpot and STILL managed to poison it until divorce was his only escape from your toxic existence. And Luxana - LUXANA is everything you'll never be. She won't play your twisted mind games, won't slice me open with those calculated reactions that make me want to TEAR THIS WORLD TO BLOODY SHREDS.

You're nothing but a parasite, feeding off the misery of others, growing fat on the pain you cause. Every smile, every goddamn gesture is calculated to manipulate, to control, to DESTROY. You think I don't see the way you relish in the chaos you create. The way your eyes light up when you sense weakness, like a shark smelling blood in the water.

How the HELL did someone like you slither into politics and business. But what truly makes my blood BOIL is how you crafted that picture-perfect mask - sweet, serene, intelligent, well-mannered - HORSESHIT. Seventeen years old and already a master of deception - it's absolutely TERRIFYING how good you are at this game. Each word from your mouth is poison, each action a calculated step in your twisted dance of destruction.

You're like a disease that infected everything pure in my life, turning gold into ash, hope into despair. Every memory of us is tainted by your betrayal, every moment we shared now feels like a knife in my back. You didn't just break my trust - you shattered it, ground it into dust, and scattered it to the winds while wearing that same pristine smile.

That's exactly why I chose Luxana to stand in your place - to be my salvation, my escape from your toxic existence. But even in that decision, I was a damn fool. I should've known you'd slither your way into this too, plotting her destruction like the venomous creature you are. Every move you make is calculated to destroy her, to turn her life into the same hell you created for me. But here's the difference, Liara - I don't give a single shit about you anymore. Your pathetic attempts to maintain control, to keep your claws in my life - they mean nothing. Luxana will be the one, and no amount of your poisonous schemes will change that. She'll be everything you pretended to be, everything you failed to become. I'll make sure of it.

Cillian slammed his thoughts shut, violently wrenching his gaze from her face as he stormed into the Greenhouse

Just you wait, Luxana - I'm coming for you. You'll be MINE and MINE ALONE. That sacred flame of yours - NO ONE else will ever touch it, see it, even DREAM of it. You'll be my Queen, my perfect weapon, and I'll march you straight down that glorious path everyone's chosen for you - straight into the loving arms of DEATH itself. I'll orchestrate your downfall with the precision of a master conductor, each note a step closer to your ultimate demise.

This isn't just a game anymore - it's become my obsession, my reason for existence. Every breath I take is focused on this singular purpose. I'll play this game like a man possessed by demons themselves - a man who's seen the end and SPITS in its face. Let the world burn, let everything crumble to ash - as long as I can watch you fall, as long as I can be the architect of your destruction.

And when you finally realize the depth of my plans, when you see the intricate web I've woven around you, it'll be too late. You'll understand then, in those final moments, that everything - EVERYTHING - has led to this. Your precious control, your carefully constructed world, will collapse around you, and I'll be there to watch every exquisite second of your undoing.

In the deceptive tranquility of the moonlit garden, a silent war raged beneath the veneer of civility. Liara, her eyes narrowed to calculating slits, regarded Cillian with a mixture of contempt and curiosity. Her mind, a labyrinth of schemes and counter-schemes, whirred with possibilities. What game was this man playing? His invitation to reinstate their engagement reeked of ulterior motives, yet here she stood, arm-in-arm with the architect of her past miseries.

A smile, as false as a mirage in the desert, graced Liara's lips. Her eyes closed, not in contentment, but in concealment of the storm that raged behind them. Her fingers, still resting on Cillian's arm, felt like serpents coiled around their prey.

"Well, nevertheless," she purred, her voice a symphony of feigned gratitude and hidden malice, "How magnanimous of you to resurrect what was once dead. I assure you, I shall transform into such an exquisite embodiment of a fiancée that you'll find yourself questioning every moment of our previous separation." The words dripped from her lips like honey laced with poison, each syllable a carefully crafted lie.

Cillian's response was visceral, a smile that spoke volumes of disgust and disdain. His eyes, unlike Liara's, remained open – windows to a soul as cold and calculating as a winter's night. In the depths of those eyes, a truth burned with fierce intensity: A PAWN. A PAWN ON MY CHESS BOARD. That's all you are and ever will be.

The air between them crackled with unspoken hostilities, each party acutely aware of the deadly dance they were engaged in. Liara, believing herself to be the puppet master, was blind to the strings that Cillian held. And Cillian, in his arrogance, underestimated the cunning of the woman he thought he controlled.

In this garden of deceit, where lavenders bloomed with the scent of distrust, two master manipulators circled each other. Each smile was a blade, each touch a potential betrayal. The game had only just begun, and in the shadowy world of power and politics, there could be only one victor.

The tranquil garden shattered as a servant burst onto the scene, his voice a desperate crescendo. "MASTER! MASTER! MASTER!" he cried, stumbling towards Cillian with frantic urgency.

Gasping for breath, the man's next words came in staccato bursts. "LETTER!" he exclaimed, then, "Duchess, Valentine," as he thrust a missive forward, his other hand clutching his knee in exhaustion.

A chill, sharp as winter's first frost, raced down Cillian's spine. Mother? The thought whispered through his mind as he grasped the proffered letter, his fingers betraying the slightest tremor.

Liara, ever the opportunist, leaned in with feigned nonchalance. "What could it be?" she inquired, her voice a study in false innocence.

Cillian's gaze, cold and indifferent, swept over her. A weary sigh escaped his lips as he broke the seal, lacking the will to rebuff her intrusion.

 The letter read:

Little Duke Cillian,

I trust this missive finds you in a state of exquisite anticipation.

Her Highness Princess Luxana resides under my protection, a delicate flower temporarily transplanted from her familiar garden. Should you harbor any desire to reclaim what you believe is yours, I extend a most... provocative invitation.

Come.

And we shall see precisely what transpires when one attempts to retrieve something that does not wish to be retrieved.

I await your response with the most refined of curiosities.

Yours with utmost contempt,

The Duchess of Valentine

A smirk played across Liara's features as she glanced from the letter to Cillian's face. But her triumph was short-lived. In an instant, the color drained from her visage, leaving her a pale, trembling statue.

For Cillian had turned to her, his eyes no longer indifferent, but blazing with a crimson fury that seemed to pierce the very essence of her being. Those eyes spoke volumes, accusing her of complicity in some unspeakable transgression.

"Kick this dung out," Cillian ordered, his voice as cold and sharp as a blade of ice. Without another glance, he strode away, his face an impenetrable mask of impassivity.

-Cillian's Room in Moonlit Edifice, Elmir, After the Chaos in Domino-

"WHAT?" The butler's exclamation echoed through the opulent chamber, his composure shattered by Cillian's sudden declaration.

Cillian's voice, a study in controlled urgency, cut through the air like a blade. "I said, inform His Majesty that I'll be visiting Romania to see my mother. Prepare the carriage and luggage immediately. I depart this instant." His words, though calm, carried an undercurrent of steel as he strode towards the bathroom to change, leaving no room for argument.

-Moonlit Edifice, Porte-Cochère-

The grand entrance of Moonlit Edifice buzzed with frantic activity as servants scurried to prepare for their master's abrupt departure. Cillian emerged, his presence commanding instant attention.

"Very well then. I'll return in about a week," Cillian announced, his tone brooking no discussion. With a casual wave that belied the gravity of the moment, he turned and entered the waiting carriage, leaving his stunned servants in his wake.

*NEEIGH*

The horse's cry pierced the afternoon, a clarion call heralding the beginning of a journey fraught with unseen dangers. As the carriage lurched forward, its wheels clattering against the cobblestones, it carried Cillian towards Romania - and towards a confrontation that promised to shake the very foundations of his world.

The Kingdom of Romania - a realm of divine facade nestling in Elmir's southern shadows. It's where my mother, Lady Rudbeckia Assiyah Von Monis, found her sanctuary after the catastrophic fall of Kior. Ah, Kior - once a titan among empires, now nothing but whispers in forgotten texts. Funny how history swallows even the mightiest whole.

Mother, barely seventeen when Kior crumbled, fled with her family to Romania - a kingdom where holiness dripped from every stone and prayer echoed through every corridor. The Holy Empire welcomed them with open arms, though those arms came with golden shackles. Four years of political maneuvering later, at twenty-one, she became the bride of my father, Lucian De Valentine Eriko Elmir - a marriage that bound two powers in holy matrimony.

But holy doesn't always mean happy. Mother's relationship with her family and the sanctimonious elite soon soured like week-old wine. Now she haunts her own kingdom like a beautiful ghost, while Father - the great Imperial Battle Commander - prowls the borders with my uncles, leaving trails of glory and bloodshed in their wake. My grandfather, the puppet master of our family's fate, rules our sprawling mansion in Elmir's capital with an iron fist wrapped in silk.

Seventeen of us spawned from this divine union - nature's twisted sense of humor giving us quadruplets, triplets, and twins, save for the youngest's solitary entrance into our chaos. My older brothers scattered like seeds in the wind, chasing foreign educations and foreign dreams. The middle ones march through Elmir's prestigious academies, and our youngest - well, they cling to Mother's skirts like desperate shadows.

And then there's me - the only one who chose to remain in Elmir's embrace, save for my sister who's bound here by marriage chains of her own. Seventeen siblings, yet I stand alone in these halls of power and pretense, watching the divine comedy unfold act by bloody act.

Cillian who had been seated on the edge of the carriage near the window with his arm resting on the windowsill and palm closed, he rested his head on it. I'll cross 20% of the distance with this carriage and teleport the rest just so as not to seem inhuman. Cillian thought, his eyes becoming slightly watery.

-Hunting Ground, Domino, After the Chaos- 

The once-darkened sky of Domino had regained its luminosity, yet the land below lay barren and lifeless. Hastily erected tents dotted the landscape, where Hospital Staff of the Imperial Family and Priests of the Holy Empire worked tirelessly to salvage the souls of men, women, and children alike.

A man approached, his demeanor grave as he delivered his report. "Your Majesty, I bring news of the royal family. While all members have survived, they have not escaped unscathed. However, we have no information regarding Lady Vespera Thornfield and her son, Prince Rowan. Furthermore, Princess Luxana's whereabouts remain unknown."

Two more men hurried to the scene, their urgency palpable. The first spoke, "Your Majesty, a number of servants have endured this calamity. We have compiled a list of those who perished, and appropriate remunerations have been allocated."

The second man continued, "Sire, the nobility has suffered greatly. A quarter of their number, including their offspring, have perished. Half are gravely wounded and currently under the care of the Holy People and physicians. The remainder sustained minor injuries. We have prepared a list with corresponding remunerations."

The King, his voice steady and authoritative, issued his commands. "Very well. Inform the families of the survivors as well as the perished and offer consolation from the Imperial Family. Dispatch the remunerations to the bereaved, drawing from the royal coffers. For those who have fallen, summon the monumental masons to prepare suitable graves and memorials. Enlist the services of meteorologists, historians, and both public and private investigators. Contact the magic tower and request the presence of their most skilled practitioners. Finally, petition the constabulary to maintain vigilance over the affected areas."

To be Continued...