25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGlEOWVRY19
The next day, a meeting was called—an emergency meeting, summoned by Viktor himself. Oddfellow hadn’t returned home that night.
Veylan’s blood ran cold the moment he heard. His mind spiraled with the possibilities, desperately clinging to the hope that Oddfellow had simply stayed elsewhere… but he didn’t. He never came back.
"Thank you all for coming on such short notice~" Viktor drawled as he circled the grand obsidian table, fingers trailing along the back of his chair like it was a throne. He didn’t sit—of course not. Viktor always had to perform.
"What is this about, Viktor? Did you find something regarding the Laurents?" Sarnan asked, his pale eyes flickering with unease, though his voice stayed even. Something wasn’t sitting right with him.
Viktor let out a low chuckle. "You could say that. Though it might just be hearsay..." he hummed with a sly grin. "Last night, a little birdy paid me a visit. An uninvited visit."
Veylan felt his stomach drop.
"I caught them snooping around my manor," Viktor continued. "Unfortunately for them, I keep my home very well protected. One wrong step and—whoops! Thirty feet down into a fae-warded cell." He even mimed the fall with theatrical flair, graceful as ever.
"Cut the theatrics, Viktor. Stop dancing around and just tell us who it was," Melantha snapped, folding her wings back in irritation.
Viktor sighed, wounded. "Gladly~"
He knocked twice on the table’s onyx surface. The chamber doors creaked open.
Two Drakmire guards entered, dragging a struggling figure between them. A black sack covered his head, arms cuffed tightly behind his back. But it was the shimmer of blue on his coat—Veylan recognized the relic immediately.
His heart stopped.
"This is your culprit~" Viktor announced, a vicious grin on his lips. "The one responsible for staking that poor, innocent man to the outer wall. I can only assume he intended to do the same to me… before he was caught. Oddfellow."
The guards ripped off the sack.
Oddfellow gasped, blood smeared across his face, one side of his mask shattered. His glamour flickered and failed, revealing the half-monstrous truth beneath: yellow, inhuman eyes blinked across jagged skin, and tiny, skittering bugs crawled beneath the surface.
The room froze. Gasps rang out like shattering glass.
Viktor strutted to the table and tossed the broken mask across it. The clatter echoed. Veylan stared down at it, jaw clenched, guilt roaring in his chest.
"We've had a Boogyman in our ranks this whole time~" Viktor cooed, tone mockingly delighted. "And we all know what that means. Exile... or execution."
Melantha stood slowly, her eyes wide. "No… No. This isn't right. Viktor, you have to be wrong. Oddfellow—creepy as he may be—he would never do this."
"This is outrageous!" Chastity hissed, slamming her palms against the table. Her angelic glow flickered with emotion. "He’s the one person here we’ve always been able to trust."
Oddfellow's eyes widened, stunned. They… trusted him?
Viktor just smiled and shrugged. "If not him… then who?"
Silence.
Veylan stood.
"I did it."
The words hit like thunder. Every head turned.
"I put him up to it," Veylan said coldly, eyes locked with Viktor’s. "I’m the one who staked that man to the wall. Oddfellow was just a pawn—my pawn, to scope the place out."
Even Viktor faltered for a moment.
And Oddfellow—his glamour flickered back, revealing a fake face for just a second more. And it wasn’t monstrous. It was horrified.
Viktor snorted. “You? Please—you can’t even handle blood.” He let out a cruel cackle, basking in his own delusion of victory.
But Veylan’s lips curled into a sharp smile. This part—this was where he excelled. Lying. Acting. Wearing masks thicker than glamour ever could. And though he was doing this for Oddfellow... no one else needed to know that. Not now.
Even if it cost him everything.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Viktor~” Veylan purred, tilting his head slightly. “You see, the night of the incident... I was drunk. High off opium. Blood and opium don’t mix well, as I’m sure you’re intimately aware.” He took a step closer to the table, voice steady, icy. “It’s like alcohol and other drugs—it messes with the senses. That’s why I vomited.”
He let the words hang in the air like poison.
“I didn’t bother correcting you because, well...” he gave a small shrug. “You had already gifted me an alibi, hadn’t you?”
The room was silent.
Viktor's grin faltered, only for a second—but it was enough. He didn’t expect that. Didn’t expect Veylan to twist the narrative back on him.
Chastity’s brows drew together. Melantha’s wings twitched. Sarnan looked down, contemplative.
And Oddfellow—Oddfellow was staring at him with wide eyes, lips parted like he wanted to scream, but couldn’t.
Because now they were both tangled in this web.
And the noose was drawing tighter.
Viktor’s smirk returned, slow and venomous, but now tinged with something colder. Contained rage.
“Oh, how noble of you,” he drawled, circling Veylan like a vulture. “Taking the fall for your grotesque little friend. I suppose this is the part where I’m supposed to be shocked? Humbled by your self-sacrifice?”
He stopped just behind him, voice lowering to a whisper only Veylan could hear. “Or maybe you’re just scared. Scared because you know how deep this rabbit hole goes—and that I’ve been at the bottom the whole time, waiting for you.”
Veylan didn’t flinch. “Try harder, Viktor. You’re starting to sound desperate.”
A slow clap echoed through the chamber—Melantha.
“I’ve heard enough,” she said coldly. “Whether it was Veylan or Oddfellow, someone desecrated that body. But Viktor…” She looked at him with narrowed eyes, “You were all too ready to throw Oddfellow to the hounds, weren’t you? And without a trial?”
Sarnan spoke next, fingers steepled. “Boogeyman or not, Oddfellow’s glamour held for years. We’ve trusted him on missions—council work, even. His face might change, but his actions haven't. That has to mean something.”
Chastity nodded. “I second that. We should be judging what he’s done, not what he is.”
Viktor scoffed. “So what? You’re going to let him walk?”
Silence.
Then Melantha looked to the guards. “Unchain him.”
Oddfellow staggered forward as the cuffs were removed, rubbing his wrists. His many yellow eyes flickered rapidly before dimming down into a tired, human-like gaze. His voice was raw.
“I didn’t kill anyone,” he muttered, trembling slightly. “I swear it. I was only trying to find proof—of what’s coming.”
“Save it,” Viktor growled, but the council had already made their decision.
“We’ll investigate the matter further,” Melantha declared. “But until then…”
She turned to Veylan.
“You’ve confessed. And the evidence, shaky as it is, supports your presence that night. Until we know more, you’re to be relieved of your council seat—effective immediately.”
Veylan didn’t speak. He only looked to Oddfellow, whose expression was unreadable, even now.
“…and you’ll be held in detainment. Solitary. Drakmire tier-three cellblock,” she finished, her voice tight with sorrow.
Two guards approached him.
“I understand,” Veylan said coolly, lifting his chin. He didn’t resist. The chains clinked around his wrists as they locked them into place.
As he passed by Viktor, he leaned in.
“You win this round,” he murmured. “But the board hasn’t stopped moving.”
Viktor simply grinned.
“I don’t need the board,” he whispered. “I am the game.”
And with that, Veylan was led out of the chamber—head high, mask unbroken, though his stomach churned with what he’d just lost.
Oddfellow stood in the silence that followed, clutching the broken remains of his mask.
Free.
But at what cost?
25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDmrqn9jDcl
Oddfellow stood in the hallway just outside the council room, trembling. His glamour flickered again, unsteady. Blood crusted down the side of his face. One of his yellow eyes refused to dim.
He felt like a child again—exposed. A thing. A monster.
He looked down at the shattered half of his mask, still clenched in his fingers. Viktor had tossed it like trash. The way they all had looked at him…
Except they hadn’t.
They had defended him.
Trusted him.
And Veylan… Veylan.
Oddfellow leaned against the wall and slid to the floor, his coat rumpled and stained. Bugs crawled from his torn sleeve and across his arm before vanishing into his skin again. His breath caught in his throat.
“He gave himself up for me,” he whispered.
For years, he had lived among them as a shadow. Barely touching. Barely breathing. Always watching. Always fearing the day they’d see beneath the mask and recoil.
But Veylan hadn’t recoiled. He’d fought for him.
And now he was in a cell because of it.
Oddfellow stared down at the broken mask in his lap, his many eyes blinking slowly. One by one, the pieces were gently gathered in his hands, cradled like something sacred.
“…I have to get him out,” he murmured. He stood up, spine crooked, posture trembling, eyes hard.“I will get him out.”
25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxoCbq5k35V
The Drakmire guards led Veylan through stone corridors lit only by cold blue runes, their boots echoing off the walls. The further they walked, the damper it became. The walls dripped. The air turned metallic.
Veylan kept his posture, chin high. But inside, he was spiraling.
This wasn’t just a holding cell. This was where traitors went. Monsters. Him.
The guards stopped before a blacksteel door, engraved with sigils meant to suppress magic and will. One pulled it open. “Inside.”
Veylan stepped in without hesitation. The door slammed shut behind him.
The cell was small. One slab of stone for a bed, a single rune-locked slit in the wall for light. No warmth. No sound. Just the oppressive weight of silence.
He sat slowly on the slab, elbows on knees, trembling hands woven together. His mind kept replaying Oddfellow’s face—flickering between angelic and monstrous. That moment of horror when Veylan had taken the fall.
He didn’t regret it.
But he hated that it felt right.
Veylan leaned back against the wall and shut his eyes. He’d lost everything. His seat. His home. His voice in the council. But the worst part?
He didn’t know if Oddfellow would come for him.
25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFVUE4pBAZh
The cold had become a companion. Not a cruel one. Just... persistent.
Veylan sat hunched on the stone slab of a cot, arms wrapped loosely around himself, sleeves rolled down over his fingers. His once-luxurious council robes were wrinkled, damp at the hems, threadbare from the mildew. The deep green silk was beginning to mold in the corners.
He hadn't spoken aloud in days.
There were no guards here—not truly. The magic did most of the work. Wards on the door. Wards in the walls. Runes humming against his skin like static. He could barely think of using magic without getting a splitting headache and coughing blood.
His eyes shifted up.
Above him was the palace. His palace. The Laurence Estate. If he closed his eyes, he could still see the way the stained-glass windows looked when the morning sun hit them. Could remember running through the garden paths as a child. The way the stone halls echoed under his boots when he'd snuck out for wine.
It’s right there, he thought. I’m right here.
But no one had come.
No one had sent a letter. No one had even sent a servant to check if he was alive.
His own parents hadn’t visited.
He laughed at the thought, though it came out hoarse, broken. The sound bounced off the walls and came back hollow.
He thought of his mother. Always so sweet, hiding behind a facade of lavish dresses and wines. His father, Lord Laurence, had always spoken in cheerful commands. Never once asked if he was happy. Never once seen him beyond the reputation.
Now he was nothing but a stain on that legacy.
Perfect, he thought bitterly. Now they don’t even have to deal with the embarrassment of disowning me. The palace walls have done it for them.
He dragged his fingers across the stone, nails chipped, skin dry and bleeding at the cuticles. He missed the little things. Warm tea. Scented oils. Silk sheets. The sound of fire cracking in the hearth.
Instead he had this: silence, shadows, and the distant sound of dripping water echoing through a tunnel like a slow clock.
He had no idea how long he’d be here. No word of trial. No promise of release.
Just a sealed door. And the quiet knowledge that he was buried alive beneath his family’s home—like a secret they didn’t want to deal with.
He blinked slowly. His eyes stung, dry from lack of sleep. He'd stopped crying days ago. Instead, his thoughts wandered—unruly, sharp.
Oddfellow.
The memory of him was the only warmth Veylan had left.
That ridiculous crooked grin. The flicker of yellow eyes when he was amused. The way he stood too close when talking, or how he tucked his coat like it was hiding something fragile.
Veylan had never asked for gratitude. He just hadn’t wanted Oddfellow to die. And if that meant rotting here... so be it.
Still, a quiet ache pressed against his chest, curling around his ribs like vines.
I hope he’s okay. I hope he’s safe.
The stone was cold beneath him. The ceiling offered no comfort. But Veylan sat, hands folded, back against the wall, eyes heavy.
Waiting.
Always waiting.
The door groaned. It never opened.
For two weeks it had remained sealed with magic and silence. But now, its ancient mechanisms shifted, runes flaring dull red before clicking open.
Veylan didn’t move from the corner. His eyes narrowed, cautious. Another hallucination?
The clink of metal boots echoed in the corridor outside, then the glint of torchlight spilled in. A guard stepped forward, face hidden behind a helmet etched with the Laurence crest.
Veylan’s lip curled. House dogs. Still loyal, huh?
But the guard didn’t speak. Instead, he stepped aside.
And she entered.
He froze.
“Hello again, darling~” Selene purred, voice as sharp as broken glass hidden in silk.
She wore black. A mourning gown, dramatic and decadent. Lace curled up her throat like a noose, and her hair was twisted into a crown of serpentine braids. She looked every bit the villain in a gothic painting—and she smiled like the artist had signed it in blood.
Veylan stood slowly, unsure if it was rage or nausea that hit first.
“You,” he spat, voice low and cracked from silence. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Selene clicked her tongue and approached as if inspecting damaged goods at an auction. She tilted her head. “My, you’ve looked better. But you still have the cheekbones. That’s something.”
The guard shifted awkwardly by the door.
Selene waved him off. “Leave us.”
The guard hesitated—Drakmire guards never left prisoners unsupervised. But this wasn’t just anyone. This was Selene Harland Laurent. Now with something more dangerous than charm: leverage.
He obeyed.
The door sealed again behind her.
Veylan didn’t move. “Say what you need to say and get out.”
“Oh, I’ll say it,” she said sweetly, plucking a folded parchment from her gloves. “You’re being released, my Lord.”
That made him blink. Once.
Then again, slower.
“I don’t believe you.”
Selene grinned. “Oh, but you should. See, your darling parents—the ones who let their heir rot under their own house—decided to clean up the mess. Quietly. Discreetly. You’ll be returned to the estate... under contract.”
She unfolded the parchment with a dramatic flick. Gold-inked. Sealed with the Laurence sigil.
“...What contract,” Veylan said flatly.
Selene stepped closer, voice now honeyed with cruelty. “A marriage contract. Our engagement. Prearranged weeks ago, before you decided to play savior to monsters and embarrass the family name. After I paid you a visit and you laid your hands on me.”
She pressed the parchment into his chest.
“You’re to be released under my guardianship, reinstated publicly as my fiancé. In exchange, I clean up your image, and your parents don’t lose face over their little failure of a son.”
Veylan went still. Completely.
The words tasted like acid in his mouth. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Oh no. No jokes today. Just contracts. Just consequences. You chose this path, Veylan,” she said with mock sympathy, brushing a hand down the front of his tattered robes. “You sacrificed yourself for your little boogeyman friend. Now you belong to me.”
“I’d rather rot,” he hissed.
She leaned in, breath cool against his cheek.
“You were already rotting, love. This just puts a prettier collar on the corpse.”
She let go of the parchment. It fell to the ground like a sentence passed. Veylan stared at it. Then at her. Then—quietly—asked the one question he hadn’t let himself think before:
“...Did you arrange this?”
Selene's eyes glittered like daggers. “Oh, my dear. You give me too much credit.”
A beat. Then a wink.
“...And not enough.”
She turned for the door, rapping twice. The seal broke. The guard returned.
“We’ll give you a day to prepare,” she called over her shoulder. “We’ll need to announce the engagement publicly. Get your little martyr crown polished, hmm?”
And with that—Selene walked out.
Veylan sank to his knees. The contract still lay where it had fallen, shining like a curse in the flickering torchlight.
He wasn’t free.
He’d just traded one cage for another.
25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmrQfqDITk5
It was snowing. Not outside—Drakmire’s cells hadn’t known weather in centuries.
But in his chest?
In his veins?
Winter.
Veylan sat at the old desk they'd dragged into the center of the cell. A mockery of his old study back home. Everything about it was wrong—the table was too small, the inkwell chipped, and the chair groaned like it resented being here. Like it, too, had been sentenced.
In front of him sat the contract. Still gold. Still beautiful. Still disgusting.
He stared at it for what felt like hours, though it could've been minutes. Time lost all meaning when you were buried under your own home.
The parchment shimmered faintly with enchantments—marriage clauses, lineage bindings, obedience magic, image rights, and the most important: release authorization.
All signed by his parents already.
Selene’s signature, too. Of course hers was the biggest. Loopy. Flamboyant. A dagger wrapped in lace.Veylan swallowed. His throat ached like it was swallowing glass. He dipped the quill into the ink. Paused.
His fingers hovered. This was it. One scratch of his name and—
No more council seat.25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqYfdjk8Z3J
No more rebellion.25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyXyvb1snOM
No more Oddfellow.
Just the good little heir returned home. On a leash.
His fingers trembled. He thought of Oddfellow’s mask, shattered. The bugs, the eyes, the horror in his face when Veylan confessed. The flicker of angelic fear. The silent why behind his gaze.
I had to. You would’ve died.
And I—
He inhaled sharply. Then pressed the quill to parchment.
Veylan Cassius Laurence.
It glowed. Sealed.
Done.
A clack echoed as he dropped the pen. His hands trembled, suddenly feeling wrong—like they didn’t belong to him anymore. Like he'd signed them away too.
The door creaked open. The same guard. The one who never spoke. He stepped inside, collected the contract, and gave Veylan a brief look.
Pity? No. Not pity. Recognition. The guard nodded once.
“You’ll be summoned tomorrow,” he said finally, voice gravel-rough. “To return home. You’ll be expected to wear the colors of your House.”
Veylan didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
He just leaned back in the chair, stared up at the cracked ceiling of the dungeon beneath his family’s palace, and laughed.
It was dry. Empty. Like a god had died in his throat.
And in the cold silence that followed…
Veylan whispered, “You better be alive, Ody.”
25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6q6ZXGSZF9
The chains had been removed, but Veylan could still feel them.
The echo of his boots on black marble followed him as he walked beside Selene, through the cold, candlelit halls of the Palace of Drakmire—his home. Or what used to be. He could still smell the iron in the stone beneath his feet, knowing just below, the dungeons still held the damp memory of his imprisonment. And yet, not once in those two weeks had his parents come down. Not once had they asked if he was even alive.
Now, they welcomed him back with trumpets and veils.
The palace hadn’t changed. Gothic spires reached like fingers toward the storm-stained sky. Tattered crimson drapes whispered in the wind pouring through the stained-glass windows, casting red and violet shadows across the cold stone. The chandeliers hung low with black candles burning slow, wax like frozen blood dripping onto the floor.
The grand hall was full.
Nobles in obsidian coats and corsets lined the edges of the staircase, watching in silent curiosity. Servants lined up like statues. The House Laurence crest loomed above the throne-like chairs at the top of the stairs—two high-backed obsidian seats flanked by armored statues of winged beasts. And sitting in them...
Lord and Lady Laurence.
His mother’s expression was a frozen mask of dignity. His father stared down with something worse than judgment—disappointment. No welcome. No embrace. Just the slow, calculating look of someone observing a chess piece being moved back into place.
Veylan clenched his jaw as Selene gripped his arm tighter, smiling sweetly to the crowd like she hadn’t pulled the strings that led him here.
A servant rang the iron bell at the base of the stair. The chatter silenced instantly.
Lady Laurence stood.
“We welcome you all,” she said, her voice smooth and cheerful, “to witness the return of my son, Lord Veylan Laurence—reborn with purpose.”
Reborn. As if he had died in the dungeon and emerged as something new. A pawn. A husband.
“And with him, his bride-to-be,” Lord Laurence continued, his voice echoing harshly against the vaulted ceiling. “Lady Selene Harland Laurent, who has graciously honored the marriage contract signed this morning under royal seal. May this union cleanse what has been tainted. And bring honor back to House Laurence.”
There was polite applause. Cold. Formal. Hollow.
Veylan kept his face blank, but his eyes found one familiar face in the crowd—one of the council members, watching him with narrowed eyes. He didn’t know if it was pity, suspicion, or disdain. Sarnan.
Selene leaned in and whispered through her painted smile, “Smile, darling. You’re free.”
But Veylan had never felt more trapped.
As the announcement came to an end, Veylan kept his face cool and calculated, the weight of a hundred eyes finally lifting from his shoulders. His gaze drifted through the retreating crowd, landing on Sarnan across the ballroom. The man’s frown was subtle, but he mouthed something—Veylan couldn’t quite catch it. He hadn’t even expected Sarnan to attend. Then again, his family was from Drakmire. It made sense, but it still caught him off guard.
One by one, the guests filtered out, their silk shoes and murmured gossip vanishing into the echoing corridors of the gothic palace. His mother, still elegant and glowing with noble pride, descended the stairs like the queen she often acted to be. She wrapped Veylan in a sunlit hug that was too warm to trust entirely.
“Oh my dear~ Welcome home... Don’t do that again,” she whispered sweetly before the sudden shift. Her grip tightened, her voice sharp like a blade tucked in velvet. He blinked, but gave no reaction beyond a silent nod.
She stepped back, her smile fixed, but her eyes narrowed.25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡX7osqE1c3r
“We’ll discuss it later,” she hissed under her breath.
Veylan’s heart stuttered. At least she still cared. That counted for something. But beyond the towering windows, past the marble pillars and vaulted arches, where his father remained seated like stone, he could feel it. The disappointment simmering in the air was thick enough to drown in.
His father stood, silent and stern, and without sparing even a glance, turned and left the room.
Selene, meanwhile, was swept up by Veylan’s mother, cooing with delight as they were ushered away for tea, already discussing guest lists and floral arrangements like nothing had happened. And Veylan was left alone in the cold, echoing ballroom, the chandelier’s light glinting off the golden collar around his neck. He was free… but only in name. A dog on a leash. Collared and claimed.
He tilted his head back, exhaling slowly as his eyes searched the painted ceiling. From across the room, his brother lingered near the entryway. Their gazes met. His brother only shook his head with a smirk before disappearing into the shadows.
And then—25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8TfRkHi47y
A familiar presence at his side.
“Why’d you take the fall?” Sarnan asked, his voice quiet and curious, the tips of his blue bunny ears twitching in time with the tension in the room.
Veylan’s lips pressed into a thin line. He let out a slow, tired sigh, shoulders finally slumping under the weight he’d been carrying.25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTsMOZKxPkn
“What else was I supposed to do? Watch an innocent man die just because of what he is?” he replied, voice low but firm.
Sarnan tilted his head, considering the answer with a knowing chuckle.25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡj3MO1yBKYE
“That’s fair. But... you know neither of them were behind it, right?”
Veylan blinked. He turned his full attention to Sarnan, brows knitting.25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡf5WDL38SW4
“What are you talking about?”
Sarnan exhaled, sliding his hands into the deep pockets of his elaborately tailored coat.25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8QtmnIIopf
“Oddfellow, for one, would never harm a fly. And as acquainted with Brusier as Viktor was, he didn’t do it either. Someone released Brusier. I found a letter of release stuffed within the records here when I was with Selene, speaking to your father about your release. He was bought out. He didn’t break out. But the signature wasn’t one I could make out...” he explained, voice lowered.
Veylan stared at him, his heartbeat stuttering.
“Bought out? Who in their right mind would buy him out?”
Sarnan shrugged. “No idea, but I know it wasn’t Viktor. Even if they were friends, Viktor’s the one who put him away before,” he added with a quiet seriousness.
Veylan’s mind began to churn.25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡG1m9lP1MFD
Wait.25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAp9aa3Crmq
“What? Hold on. Viktor put him away?” he asked, trying to piece together the foggy edges of a memory that refused to surface.
Sarnan gave a short laugh.25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrSc2eWokuv
“Viktor explained his side of things when you were put away. I can understand if you don’t remember the scene to a T considering the events of the ball before your marriage with Kora. But he was the one who had made sure he was locked up. Tight.” He let out a weary sigh.
Veylan frowned deeply, his knuckle resting against his lips as he thought.25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnhjoiPolrt
Had Viktor really locked Brusier away?25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrNb1x54tDP
Why couldn’t he remember that part?
Veylan sighed, running a hand down his face as the sting of the conversation began to settle deep in his bones. He turned to Sarnan again, voice edged with bitter disbelief.25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsZcLlHkCfZ
“So this whole time... Oddfellow could have been cleared and I could’ve saved myself the trouble of being thrown into my family’s dungeon?”
Sarnan laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. It was sharp and tired, laced with regret.25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡf1UgwqfEKT
“You’re the one who stood up right after Viktor finished his statement. I knew there were holes in everyone’s stories, I could’ve said something.”
“But you didn’t.”
Sarnan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡv6MgdgFowz
“But I didn’t because I would’ve been too late. But, look at the bright side of things—you’re free now, with a beautiful fiancée who has a rockin’ body I might add, and you get to come back to Grasigna. Just not the Council.” He shrugged, trying for levity.
Veylan’s eye twitched. That wasn’t a bright side. Not in the slightest. He didn’t care about Selene—not anymore. He had loved the old Selene. The woman he thought he knew. Not this smirking, manipulative stranger who signed a marriage contract out of spite and possession.
“Wait... Grasigna?”
Sarnan laughed, one brow raised in amused surprise.25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7WxtBplZJx
“Did Selene not tell you? I swear, that woman has terrible memory~ You’re being permanently removed from Drakmire until your father passes. You’ll be moving to Grasigna with your inheritance, and you’ll be working as a Donor and Party Decorator for the Academy,” he said casually, as if he hadn’t just hurled Veylan’s entire life into a pit of absurdity.
Veylan stared at him, mouth slightly parted, his red eyes blazing with fury.
Oh, fuck no.25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡo7TSx1jHGS
He was being exiled?25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡePY7LSpQBS
For what?25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6psexwSqsP
Making his daddy upset?
“Fucking hell,” he growled under his breath, venom curling around every syllable.
Sarnan snorted, then clapped him firmly on the shoulder, voice sing-songing as he turned to leave.25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhl76U6cU0W
“You’ll be alright~ Selene knows how to take care of her pets. You’ll be in good hands, lapdog~” he teased, letting the word echo mockingly across the stone halls of the ballroom.
Veylan stood frozen, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles paled. His jaw ticked, his breath came shallow, and his vision narrowed on the doors as Sarnan disappeared through them.
The ballroom was empty again. Cold. Too clean. Too quiet.
His fingers curled slowly, nails elongating as his skin split and shimmered with dark red threads of blood magic. The threads twisted and pulsed, then coiled into a jagged, spear-like form in his hand—living, trembling with rage.
With a roar, he flung it.
The blood-spear struck the painting with deadly precision, sinking straight into the eye of the man painted on the canvas—his father. That fucking bastard.
“Veylan darling~ come have some tea~” Selene’s voice rang out sweetly through the ballroom doors as she peeked in, tone cheerful and innocent.
His magic instantly recoiled, blood vanishing beneath his skin as he turned to her. Her smile was all sugar and satin, as if she hadn’t just bought him like a trophy to hang on her arm.
Which was ironic.25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡG5SUjmrrhZ
Because now…25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFIZkQaBclz
He had no choice but to obey her.25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8bx5vrrjIB
25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUkRJKd3qgs
Veylan Cassius Laurence25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtT2LiEGfXR
Age: 22 | Race: Pureblood Vampire25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGW355Jnxmj
He was never meant to be a hero, nor a villain. Just a man caught in a game he never agreed to play.
ns3.23.102.227da2
