Chapter 5

Chapter 5: The Devil's Vulnerability

The palace was silent as evening settled over the Golden Kingdom. The once-vibrant corridors, bustling with maids and guards, were now dimly lit by the flicker of oil lanterns. The faint hum of crickets from the outer gardens seeped into the air, a serene melody that contrasted sharply with the tension in the small palace kitchen.

Elowen stood at the sink, her hands submerged in cold, soapy water. Her fingers were red and raw, trembling as she scrubbed at a stubborn stain on one of the heavy silver platters. The air was thick and still, and the faint light of a single lantern cast shadows on her pale face. She was utterly exhausted—her head throbbed with the fever that had been building all day, her legs felt as though they might buckle beneath her at any moment, and her back ached from hours of bending and scrubbing.

She cast a glance toward the small adjoining room where Sadie lay sleeping, curled up on a pile of blankets, her breathing soft and peaceful. Sadie had tried to help earlier in the day, but Elowen had insisted she rest, not wanting to draw Selene's wrath upon the kind-hearted maid.

Elowen sighed and turned back to the sink. Her reflection shimmered faintly in the silver platter, and she barely recognized herself. Her once-bright green eyes were dull with fatigue, her golden waves of hair clung limply to her sweat-dampened skin, and her lips, once full and soft, were cracked from dehydration.

"I can't stop now," she whispered to herself, gripping the platter tightly. "Just a little more, and it'll be done."

But even as she said the words, her vision blurred, and her hands trembled so violently that the platter nearly slipped from her grasp. Her fever worsening with each passing moment, a shadow flickered in the corner of the room. She paused, her heart racing as the faint scent of sandalwood filled the air.

A low, familiar chuckle echoed in the darkness.

"Elowen," Morris said smoothly, stepping into the light. "Did you really think you could escape me?"

His mocking voice broke the silence. "So this is what you've been reduced to? A scullery maid scrubbing dishes while your fever eats away at you."

Elowen froze. Her blood ran cold as that voice wrapped around her like a shadow, smooth and deep, dripping with amusement and menace. Slowly, she turned her head, her heart hammering in her chest.

Morris stood leaning casually against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his golden eyes gleaming in the dim light. He looked as impossibly perfect as he had the night before—his dark hair fell in soft waves around his chiseled face, his sharp jawline and full lips framed by the faintest smirk. The faint glow of crimson light clung to him, a constant reminder that he was something far more dangerous than human.

"You," Elowen breathed, her voice trembling with both fear and anger. "What are you doing here?"

Morris pushed off the doorframe and stepped into the room, his boots making no sound against the stone floor. The air around him seemed to shift, growing heavier with each step he took. "Is that how you greet your husband?" he drawled, his tone laced with mockery.

"You are not my husband," she snapped, her fear giving way to defiance. She turned back to the sink, gripping the edge of it tightly to steady herself. "And you have no right to be here."

Morris chuckled, a low, dark sound that sent a shiver down her spine. "No right? My little lamb, I have every right. Did you forget the mark on your neck? You belong to me."

Elowen's hands clenched into fists, her knuckles white against the sink. "I don't belong to anyone," she said, her voice low and shaky.

Morris moved closer, his towering presence enveloping her. He leaned in, his lips dangerously close to her ear. "You're trembling," he murmured, his voice a mix of amusement and something darker. "Is it fear, or something else?"

Elowen swallowed hard, refusing to let him see the tears that threatened to spill. "It's exhaustion," she said through gritted teeth. "Now leave me alone."

Morris straightened, his smirk faltering as his golden eyes swept over her trembling form. For the first time, he noticed the way her shoulders slumped, the sweat that clung to her brow, and the faint flush on her cheeks that spoke of fever.

"Why do you bother?" he asked, his tone shifting to one of cold curiosity. "Why humiliate yourself like this? Scrubbing dishes for people who despise you when you could live like a queen in my realm."

"Because I am not like you," Elowen shot back, her voice rising despite her weakness. She turned to face him, her green eyes burning with defiance. "I don't take what doesn't belong to me. I earn my place. I fight for it."

Morris's smirk returned, though it lacked its usual sharpness. "How noble," he said dryly.

Elowen's knees buckled, and she caught herself against the edge of the sink, her breath coming in short, labored gasps. For a brief moment, something flickered across Morris's face—something that looked almost like concern.

Without a word, he raised his hand. The air crackled faintly, and a soft glow emanated from his palm. The soapy water in the sink vanished, the silver platter was left spotless, and the remaining stack of dishes on the counter gleamed as though freshly polished.

Elowen stared in stunned silence as the cleaning supplies around her vanished one by one, the room suddenly immaculate.

"Why..." she whispered, her voice breaking. "Why would you—"

Morris stepped closer, his golden eyes locking onto hers. "Don't misunderstand," he said coldly, though his tone lacked its usual bite. "I didn't do it for you. I simply can't bear to see something so pathetic."

But even as the words left his lips, Morris felt a strange sensation deep in his chest. Her exhaustion, her fever, her pain—he could feel it all, as though it were his own. He clenched his jaw, his mind racing as he struggled to make sense of the unfamiliar emotions.

Elowen swayed, her body giving in to the weight of her exhaustion. Before she could collapse, Morris caught her, his arms strong and steady as he pulled her against him.

Her body was limp, her head resting against his chest as she murmured something incoherent. Morris stared down at her, his expression unreadable as a swirl of emotions he hadn't felt in centuries threatened to consume him.

"Ridiculous," he muttered under his breath. "This is why I abandoned humanity. Emotions make you weak."

With a flick of his wrist, the air around them shimmered, and in an instant, they were gone.

Elowen stirred faintly, her feverish eyes fluttering open to find herself in a room unlike any she had ever seen—dark, vast, and filled with an unsettling beauty.

Her body felt weightless, and the aching exhaustion that had gripped her for so long seemed to have faded. But as her eyes fluttered open, she froze.

The room around her was vast, too vast to belong to anything mortal. The walls were smooth and dark, made of obsidian that gleamed faintly in the soft crimson light that pulsed from runes carved into the stone. The ceiling stretched high above, its surface glittering like a night sky filled with stars. The bed she lay on was enormous, draped in black and crimson silk that shimmered under the faint glow of floating orbs of light that hovered in the air like silent sentinels.

It was eerily silent, save for the faint hum that seemed to come from the walls themselves, as though the very stones were alive with some ancient power. Elowen pushed herself up slowly, her body still weak, her fingers clutching at the cool fabric of the sheets.

"Where…?" Her voice was hoarse, barely audible.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet touching the warm, polished stone floor. The warmth surprised her—it was as if the room itself was alive, pulsing faintly with heat and energy. She staggered to her feet, her eyes darting around the room in search of an exit.

And then, the door opened.

And standing across her, his golden eyes glowing faintly in the dim light, was Morris.

"You're in my world now, little lamb," he said, his voice soft but chilling. "And there's no escaping me this time."

Morris stepped into the room, his golden eyes immediately locking onto Elowen. He looked as he always did—effortlessly regal, his black coat flowing behind him like liquid shadow, his dark hair framing his sharp features. But here, in this strange realm, he seemed even more imposing. The faint crimson light cast a glow on his skin, emphasizing the perfection of his face, the predatory gleam in his eyes.

"Awake already?" he drawled, his voice rich and smooth, laced with a hint of mockery. "I thought you'd be unconscious for a while longer. Mortals aren't usually this resilient."

Elowen took an unsteady step back, her emerald-green eyes wide with fear. "Where am I?" she demanded, though her voice trembled.

Morris smirked, leaning casually against the doorframe. "Welcome to my realm, little lamb. This is where I rule, where my power is absolute." He gestured to the room around them. "Do you like it? I thought I'd give you the best accommodations available."

Elowen's gaze darted to the glowing runes on the walls, to the crimson light that filled the space. "Why did you bring me here?" she asked, her voice firmer now despite the fear gnawing at her.

Morris pushed off the doorframe and took a step closer to her, his golden eyes gleaming with amusement. "Because you fainted in my arms," he said simply, his tone almost teasing. "And I wasn't about to leave you in that dreadful palace to die of exhaustion. Consider it… a gesture of mercy."

"Mercy?" Elowen repeated, her voice rising in disbelief. "You don't know the meaning of the word. You're a monster."

Morris's smirk faltered for the briefest of moments, but it returned just as quickly, sharper than before. "Perhaps," he said, his tone colder now. "But that doesn't change the fact that you're here, in my world, under my protection. And no one leaves without my permission."

Elowen's anger flared despite her fear. "You can't keep me here," she said, her voice shaking. "I don't belong to you."

Morris laughed, a low, dangerous sound that sent a chill down her spine. "You've been saying that a lot lately," he said, stepping closer until he was standing directly in front of her. "But the mark on your neck says otherwise. You belong to me now, little lamb. Whether you like it or not."

Before Elowen could respond, a sharp knock echoed through the room. Morris sighed, turning toward the door. "Enter."

The door creaked open, and a tall figure stepped inside—a demon, sleek and sharp-featured, with skin that shimmered faintly like polished stone and eyes that glowed a deep crimson. His horns curled elegantly above his head, and a faint aura of smoke surrounded him.

"My lord," the demon said, bowing deeply. "I apologize for the intrusion, but some of the council members have expressed… concern over the mortal's presence here."

Morris's expression darkened instantly, his golden eyes narrowing. "Concern?" he repeated, his voice dangerously soft.

The demon hesitated, glancing briefly at Elowen before continuing. "They question why a human—especially one so fragile—would be allowed in our realm. Some are beginning to suggest that your… judgment may be compromised."

Morris's lips curled into a slow, cruel smile, and Elowen felt the air in the room grow heavier, colder. "Is that so?" he said, his voice dripping with menace.

The demon shifted uncomfortably. "It's only talk, my lord. Nothing more."

Without warning, Morris raised his hand, and the air crackled with energy. The demon was lifted off the ground, his feet dangling as he clawed at his throat, gasping for breath.

"Let them talk," Morris said, his voice calm but lethal. "And let them remember what happens to those who question me."

With a flick of his wrist, he released the demon, who collapsed to the floor, coughing and trembling. Morris turned his back on him, his attention once again focused on Elowen.

"You see, little lamb," he said, his smirk returning, "this is what it means to rule. Mercy is weakness, and I have no use for it."

But even as he spoke the words, a strange sensation stirred in his chest—a flicker of something unfamiliar, something unsettling. He could feel her fear, her exhaustion, her pain, as though it were his own. It gnawed at him, threatening to unravel the carefully constructed walls he had built around himself.

Elowen sank onto the edge of the bed, her head spinning. She didn't know whether to feel grateful or terrified. Morris's presence was overwhelming, his power suffocating, yet there was something in his golden eyes that made her hesitate.

Morris turned away from her, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He couldn't understand why her pain affected him so deeply, why her trembling voice lingered in his mind. He was the devil—ruthless, unfeeling, untouchable. Yet here he was, unable to ignore the ache in his chest every time he looked at her.

"I should have left you in that cursed palace," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "You're nothing but a distraction."

Elowen looked up at him, her green eyes narrowing despite her fear. "Then why didn't you?" she asked softly.

Morris turned to her, his golden eyes blazing with frustration. "I don't know," he admitted, the words sharp and bitter. "And that makes you dangerous."

Before Elowen could respond, the room shook faintly, and a deep, resonating hum filled the air. Morris's expression hardened, his body tense as he turned toward the door.

"Stay here," he commanded, his voice cold and firm. Without another word, he disappeared, leaving Elowen alone in the silent, pulsing room.

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The grand music hall of the Golden Palace was nothing short of majestic. High vaulted ceilings arched like the ribs of a great beast, adorned with gilded carvings of dragons and phoenixes in eternal battle. Crystal chandeliers hung like clusters of stars, their light reflecting off the polished marble floor, creating a shimmering glow that danced around the room. The air was faintly perfumed with the scent of sandalwood and lilies, giving the space an ethereal elegance.

At the far end of the hall stood the Dragon Tears, a grand piano of unparalleled beauty and legend. Its sleek, ebony surface seemed to drink in the light, while its keys, crafted from enchanted ivory and obsidian, glimmered faintly with their own inner luminescence. It was said that when played correctly, the piano could reveal truths hidden within a person's soul—secrets they dared not speak aloud.

Prince Derek sat before it, his back straight, his hands hovering over the keys as though he were a sculptor about to shape the very air into art. He wore a simple, tailored black coat embroidered with gold along the cuffs and collar, his golden hair pulled neatly back. The soft candlelight caught the sharp planes of his face—his high cheekbones, the firm set of his jaw, and the icy blue eyes that seemed to see too much.

The melody he played was haunting, a slow, mournful tune that seemed to whisper of forgotten dreams and buried pain. His fingers moved with precision, each note resonating with a depth that made the room feel heavier, as though the music itself carried the weight of his thoughts.

Across the room, Prince Cason, the second eldest of the three brothers, reclined lazily on a velvet chaise, a cup of steaming tea cradled in his hands. His auburn hair was tousled in a way that made him look effortlessly charming, his green eyes gleaming with amusement as he watched Derek play. Cason was the most easygoing of the princes, his roguish smile often disarming even the sharpest critics.

Beside him, Prince Amir, the youngest of the three, sat cross-legged in a high-backed chair. His dark brown hair fell in soft waves around his face, and his hazel eyes were thoughtful as he sipped from his tea. Amir was quieter than his brothers, his demeanor more reserved, though his mind was as sharp as a blade.

For a while, they simply listened to Derek's playing, the melody filling the vast hall like a living thing. But it wasn't long before Cason's restlessness got the better of him.

"Do you always have to play something so dreary, Derek?" he asked, his voice breaking the spell of the music. He took a sip of his tea, raising an eyebrow at his elder brother. "It's like you're trying to summon the dead."

Derek's fingers paused over the keys, and for a moment, the room fell silent. He turned his head slightly, his blue eyes glinting in the candlelight as he regarded Cason with mild annoyance.

"If you had half the patience required to play this piece, you'd understand its brilliance," Derek replied coolly, his voice low and even.

Cason grinned, unbothered by the jab. "Patience is overrated. I'd rather be enjoying the finer things in life. Speaking of which…" He leaned back, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Have you seen the princesses today? There are some real beauties among them. Truly exquisite."

Amir snorted softly, setting his teacup down on the small table beside him. "You mean you've been ogling them like a starving wolf," he said dryly. "Do you ever think of anything other than women, Cason?"

"Of course I do," Cason replied with mock indignation. "But when the women look like that, can you blame me? Some of them have bodies that could make a statue weep."

Derek sighed, his fingers brushing over the keys absently as he listened to his brothers. The melody had been forgotten, his thoughts now tangled in the conversation.

"I'm more interested in the general competition," Cason continued, swirling his tea lazily. "It'll be fun to see them fight for our attention, don't you think? By the end of it, we'll have twenty of the best to choose from. I can't wait to see who makes the cut."

Amir frowned, leaning forward slightly. "You're forgetting that most of them are pretending to be something they're not. A few tears, a carefully chosen smile, and suddenly they're the perfect candidate. It's exhausting."

Cason waved a hand dismissively. "That's the game, little brother. You just have to play it better than they do."

"What about you, Derek?" Amir asked, turning to their elder brother. "Have you found anyone who's caught your interest yet?"

Derek shook his head, his gaze distant. "No."

Cason smirked. "Really? No one? Not even the golden-haired princess from Eryndor? She was practically throwing herself at you during the banquet."

"I'm not interested in someone who throws themselves at me," Derek replied curtly. He hesitated for a moment, then added, "But there is something I've been curious about."

Amir and Cason exchanged glances, intrigued.

"What is it?" Cason asked, leaning forward slightly.

Derek's fingers drifted over the keys again, but this time the notes were slow and deliberate, as though he were testing the waters of the conversation. "What do you know about bite marks?"

Cason's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Bite marks?"

"Yes," Derek said, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. "Particularly those that… bind someone to another."

Cason set his cup down, his expression suddenly serious. "Binding marks aren't something you see every day," he said slowly. "They're not human. At least, not in origin. They're mostly used by other beings to claim someone as their mate. It's rare."

"Other beings?" Derek pressed.

"Vampires, for one," Cason replied, his green eyes narrowing in thought. "Their bite is a mark of possession, a way to claim their chosen mate. And then there's…" He trailed off, his voice growing quieter.

"The devil," Amir finished, his voice barely above a whisper.

The room seemed to grow colder at the mention of the word. Cason nodded reluctantly. "Yes. The devil's mark is the most binding of all. It's rare—so rare that most people don't even believe it exists. But if someone were to bear such a mark…" He shook his head, his expression grim.

"What would it mean?" Derek asked, his voice calm despite the turmoil in his mind.

"It would mean they belong to him," Cason said simply. "Completely and irrevocably."

Amir's hazel eyes flicked to Derek, his curiosity plain. "Why are you asking about this, Derek?"

Derek's fingers stilled on the keys, his face betraying nothing. "It's just something I heard," he said dismissively. "A rumor."

Cason studied him for a moment, then leaned back with a shrug. "Well, if you ever see someone with such a mark, I'd advise staying far, far away. It can only mean trouble."

Derek didn't reply. His mind was elsewhere, turning over the memory of the swollen bite mark he'd seen on Elowen's neck.

As the brothers continued their discussion, Derek's gaze drifted to the piano keys beneath his fingers. Slowly, deliberately, he began to play again, the haunting melody weaving through the silence. This time, it was not a song of sorrow—it was a song of secrets. And as the Dragon Tears resonated, Derek felt something stir within him, as though the piano itself was urging him to uncover the truth.

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