Chapter 7

The morning sun crept over the gilded rooftops of Silvorout's royal palace, casting golden rays that danced across polished marble and glinting windows. For most, it marked the start of a peaceful day, but not for Prince Damon.

He stood motionless by the wide arched window of his private study, his tall frame cloaked in a black tailored suit. A gloved hand gripped the edge of the window frame, while his sharp gray eyes squinted against the creeping sunlight.

The beams of daylight pierced through the glass, and for a fleeting moment, Damon's breath hitched. The warmth on his skin wasn't comforting. No, it was not. it was a curse. A searing burn bloomed across the back of his hand, and he hissed, jerking away from the window with unnatural speed.

Smoke curled from his glove. He tore it off, revealing red, raw skin already starting to blister.

"Damn it," he muttered, voice low and hoarse. "It has started again"

A knock came at the door, followed by the entrance of a tall man with a sharp jawline and piercing eyes; Lucien Vale.

Lucien's eyes darted to the burn. "Again?" he asked, his tone clipped but laced with concern.

Damon didn't answer. He moved to the shadows of the room, grabbing a fresh glove from a drawer.

"You need to stop testing your limits," Lucien said as he shut the door behind him. "You know what this means."

"I know exactly what it means," Damon snapped, his voice sharper than glass. He flexed his injured hand once, twice. "It means she's not here."

Lucien's brow furrowed. "You're sure?"

Damon paced the room like a predator barely restrained. "I didn't feel it this strongly until this morning. The air's thinner. The burn is deeper. Her scent... it's gone."

Lucien remained quiet, letting his prince think. Then, slowly, he said, "I heard from the border scouts. A woman matching her description passed through the North Gate this morning, disguised and alone."

Damon stilled. His gray eyes flashed a dangerous shade of silver. "Where?"

"She crossed into Yarnat territory."

That single sentence sent a ripple of tension through the room. Not because Yarnat was an enemy, but because it wasn't. Silvorout and Yarnat were allies, politically intertwined in trade, diplomacy, and military support and most especially, the kings of both countries were best friends and this meant… she was hiding in a place where his name carried influence, not fear.

"She's clever," Damon murmured. "She chose Yarnat because she knows I won't raise suspicion by barging in with a legion."

Lucien nodded, watching him closely. "You want to go after her."

Damon didn't answer with words. He reached for his coat.

"Alone?" Lucien asked, stepping in his path.

"Yes."

Lucien narrowed his eyes. "You realize what could happen if the council discovers that you have left the country?"

"It doesn't matter. I'm not going to stay there for long. I just want to see her" Damon's voice was calm now.

Too calm.

Lucien ran a hand through his hair. "Fine. You go. But if you lose control…if your thirst get the better of you…"

"It won't."

"You're playing with fire, Prince Damon."

"No," Damon said as he stepped into the dark corridor. "I am the fire."

—

The royal jet departed at noon under the guise of a diplomatic mission. Only Lucien, his trusted man knew where Damon was heading or why, and he had made sure to tighten palace security in his absence just in case.

Meanwhile, in Yarnat Empire, Ashley sat in a modest one-bedroom flat, her knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around herself. The dull hum of traffic outside contrasted with the storm inside her mind.

She had found refuge in a quiet district, under a false name. A kind local woman had offered her the space after she claimed she'd fled an abusive noble household, which was half true, half not. Ashley couldn't eat, barely slept, and every time she closed her eyes, his face haunted her.

His touch. His voice. That look in his eyes.

She had given everything to him, and now, she was lost, both physically, emotionally, and in her own sense of identity.

She reached for the pocket-sized mirror by the bedside. Her reflection looked different, pale, hollow. Her deep blue eyes held no spark. The girl she saw wasn't Mitilde Ashley anymore. And she definitely wasn't Zavala Levine either.

She was a ghost.

A knock on the door startled her.

Heart racing, Ashley slowly crept toward the door. "Who is it?"

No answer.

She swallowed hard. It couldn't be him. There's no way he found her this fast.

Another knock.

Then a male voice, gentle, unfamiliar. "Delivery."

She cracked the door open and peeked. A young man with a clipboard stood there with a brown paper bag.

"Are you… Mila Aster?"

That was the name she used.

"Yes," she answered cautiously.

"Food parcel from the Red Dove Aid Network."

Ashley blinked. She didn't remember signing up for any aid group, but maybe the landlady had done it for her.

"Thank you," she whispered and accepted the parcel.

As soon as she shut the door, she bolted it and dropped to the floor, shaking. Her hands trembled as she opened the bag. Food, warm bread and a bottle of water. Canned soup. Nothing suspicious.

She pressed the food to her chest and let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

But from across the street, behind tinted windows of a parked black car, a figure watched her through binoculars.

"Found her," the man murmured into a phone. "She's using the name Mila Aster. Safehouse, 23 Glynview Lane, Yarnat."

A pause. Then, "Yes, Your Highness. She's alone."

Inside the jet slicing through clouds high above the ocean, Damon opened his eyes.

The sun was gone. Night had fallen.

He smiled, slow, cold, and full of intent.

"I'm coming for you," he whispered to himself, leaning back as the engines roared louder, faster, racing toward Yarnat.