The_Lazy_Editor

The realm of Lusara is a land of splendor and strife, where towering kingdoms rise above fertile lands, and shadowed secrets dwell within the hearts of the powerful. The empire is upheld by a delicate balance: a sovereign monarch presiding over lesser lords, and beneath them, the two dominant Houses—House Avernal and House Crimsonvale.

These Houses are the empire’s shield and dagger, bound by duty yet divided by enmity. Known as the "Houses of the Devil," their reputations stem from the lords who rule them—individuals whose power, ambition, and ruthlessness have made them both revered and feared.

Each House serves the empire in its own way: House Avernal safeguards the northern frontiers, a land of unyielding mountains and winter's breath, while House Crimsonvale governs the southern expanses, a place of blazing sands and endless sunsets. Though their territories form the empire’s spine, their hostility toward each other threatens to tear it apart.

In a time of rising tensions, their paths converge not on the battlefield but at the edge of the empire, where an abandoned orphanage crumbles in solitude. There, among overgrown flowers and whispered memories, lives a girl who calls herself a flower. This meeting will set the threads of destiny spinning, entwining love, hatred, and the bittersweet fragility of life.

Devils Tied By A Flower

Seraphina stormed away from the table, her breaths ragged, her heart pounding against her ribs. Every step felt too slow, too heavy, as if she were dragging the weight of her own confusion along with her. She barely noticed the whispers fading behind her, nor did she care for the stares that followed her retreating figure.

Reaching the solitude of a sturdy oak tree at the edge of the clearing, she clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. The moment her feet halted, she reeled back and drove her fist into the tree bark.

The impact sent a dull ache up her arm, but she welcomed it, anything to drown out the absurd whirlwind in her mind. Her breaths came sharp and fast, her face burning as unwanted thoughts surfaced relentlessly.

"What the hell was that?!" she hissed to herself, forehead pressed against the rough bark. "I—I was wiping his face? Me? Of all people?!"

Her fists tightened once more. The memory replayed—his unwavering violet eyes locked with hers, the way time seemed to slow, the unbearable heat that surged through her veins. It made no sense.

Meanwhile, back at the table, Caelum let out a slow, controlled breath before rising from his seat. His every movement remained composed, measured—as if nothing had rattled him. Lyra continued eating, blissfully unaware of the tension still lingering in the air, while the rest of the camp remained cautiously observant.

Caelum walked with purpose, his long strides carrying him directly to his tent. The moment he stepped inside, his composure shattered. He sank into his chair, exhaling sharply before covering his face with his palm.

Through the small gap of his fingers, the evidence of his turmoil was clear—his face, flushed a deep crimson. Even the tips of his ears burned as he let out another long sigh.

"Ridiculous," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. "Absolutely ridiculous."

And yet, no matter how many times he told himself that, the image of Seraphina—her scarlet hair glowing in the morning light, her startled crimson eyes, the lingering warmth of her touch—refused to leave his mind.

He let out another frustrated sigh, leaning back against his chair.

Fractured Composure