Maravelle sat alone in the high chamber, stone walls pressing in around her like a silent sentence. The small window let in little more than a strip of pale light, casting long shadows across the bare floor. Damp clung to the air, and somewhere beyond the walls, a raven called once and fell silent. The room held only a narrow bed and a wooden chair, both worn from age. She had fought when they brought her here seven days ago, but now, she stared at the door, unmoving, except the strange looking girl who brings her food and water twice a day. Beyond the strange castle lay the endless forest, dark and thick, and whatever magic had brought her here had long since vanished into silence.
A soft creak broke the silence. Maravelle who used to look strong and proud, always dressed in fine clothes with her head held high, now looked tired and weak. Her hair messy and her eyes dull.
Her eyes lifted as the heavy door eased open. A tall figure stepped inside, broad-shouldered, his eyes pale and wild, the unmistakable mark of a rogue Lycan written in every scar and ragged breath.
"You need to come with me," he said, voice low and rough.
She wanted to resist, to lash out but her limbs trembled with weakness. The air in the room drained her, thick with old magic that clung to her bones like chains.
Without a word, she stood on shaking legs and followed him into the dim corridor, the sound of their footsteps swallowed by the stone around them.
The hallways were narrow and cold, carved from dark stone that seemed to drink in the light. Old torches flickered on the walls, casting long, twitching shadows that danced like ghosts. The air was damp and heavy, carrying the scent of moss and time.
Maravelle moved slowly, her bare feet brushing against the worn rug that ran like a faded trail through the darkness. The rogue Lycan walked ahead in silence, his presence a looming shape in the gloom.
At the far end, the corridor opened into a room that felt startlingly out of place.
Warm lamplight bathed the space in gold. A large bed stood in the center, its thick blankets neatly folded, the frame carved with careful detail. A soft rug covered the floor, and a small fire crackled in the hearth. Against one wall stood a tall wardrobe, its doors ajar, revealing gowns of rich fabric, velvets, silks, in deep greens and muted golds.
It looked like a room meant for comfort. But nothing about it comforted her. As she stood silently, her fingers brushing the edge of the wardrobe door, a voice—low, smooth, and steeped in something ancient—echoed from behind her.
"Do you like your new room?"
She froze.
The warmth of the fire suddenly felt cold against her skin. Slowly, she turned.
There, just within the doorway, stood the Moonguard prince. His eyes gleamed with a quiet power, the kind that watched and waited. He looked unchanged by time, yet worn by it, like a statue that had weathered a thousand storms and remained standing only because it chose to.
He stood tall and lean, yet undeniably powerful, with a presence that seemed to warp the very air around him. Black hair fell past his shoulders in loose, gleaming waves, framing a pale face carved with elegance and silence. His high-collared tunic, deep midnight blue, clung to his frame, the silver thread along its edges catching the firelight like scattered stars.
He was beautiful, yes, but like winter, still, cold, and utterly unforgiving. Even his smile held no kindness.
Maravelle froze as her eyes locked on his face.
"You…" Her voice barely left her lips. "It can't be."
The Moonguard prince gave a slow, graceful nod, as if her shock pleased him. "It's been a long time, Maravelle."
Her breath caught. "Why have you brought me here? Why did you kidnap me?"
"Kidnapped?" he echoed, sounding almost wounded. "Is that what you think this is?" He swept a hand toward the well-furnished room. "Forgive the poor welcome. My home isn't used to guests of your… rank. Let us start over. Join me for dinner."
She stepped back, spine stiff with fury. "Dinner? I don't care for your hospitality. I want to know why I'm here, not dine with the one who locked me in a stone cell."
He gave a half-smile, more shadow than warmth. "You'll know soon enough. But not on an empty stomach. Come. Sit across from me, as we once did."
"I wouldn't share a table with you if the world were ending," she spat. "You disgust me. I don't want to see you, let alone dine with you."
He gave a soft sigh, as though indulging a child. "That's unfortunate. I was hoping for a more pleasant conversation especially with your favorite Lady Selene joining us."
Maravelle's face went pale. "What have you done?"
"Nothing," he said with a faint smile. "I merely invited her. She'll be here soon." He turned toward the door, pausing just before stepping out. "There's a bath drawn for you. I suggest you take it and prepare yourself."
Then, without another word, he vanished into the shadows beyond the doorway, leaving the heavy silence behind.
She stood frozen in the middle of the room, the prince's parting words echoing like a curse.
Selene.
Maravelle's breath hitched, and for the first time since waking in this strange place, fear laced her anger. Not for herself, but for the girl. Foolish, vain, and sharp-tongued as she was, Selene didn't deserve this. Whatever game the prince was playing, Maravelle knew he didn't bring Selene here for polite company.
She turned toward the door, tempted to throw it open and demand answers, to scream until the stone cracked.
But the castle remained silent.
With a shaking hand, she reached for the bathroom door. She had to get Selene out of here. Whatever sins she had committed, the girl had nothing to do with them. Selene didn't belong in this twisted place.
The corridor seemed longer this time, colder. Every flickering torch cast shapes that felt like claws reaching from the walls. Her bare feet made no sound on the rug as she followed the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine.
At the end, two heavy doors stood open, spilling warm light into the hall beyond.
She stepped inside.
The dining room was grand, long and narrow, with stone columns lining the sides. A single table stretched down the center. Crystal goblets shimmered beside polished silver. Velvet drapes hung at the windows, thick enough to hide a thousand secrets.
He was already seated.
The prince rose when she entered.
"You look lovely," he said.
She didn't answer, didn't sit. Maravelle wore a deep emerald gown that clung to her frame, the velvet soft but heavy. Silver embroidery curled along the sleeves and hem like vines, delicate and cold against her skin.
"Where is Selene?" Her voice was steady, but low, like a blade drawn quietly in the dark.
"She'll be here shortly," he said, gesturing to the seat across from him. "Please."
Maravelle hesitated, but every second counted. If she wanted to help Selene, she needed to make him think she was on his side.
She sat.
The double doors opened soundlessly, and a line of women glided into the room, barefoot, their movements slow and fluid, as if they were dancing just beneath the surface of unseen water.
Their gowns were little more than scraps of lace and shimmer, sheer fabrics that clung to damp skin and left very little to the imagination. Long hair, pearl-streaked, curled down their backs. Their eyes watched Maravelle with eerie calm as they silently poured wine into goblets and laid platters of roasted chicken, figs, and glistening seafood across the table.
Maravelle's lip curled. "Is this a dinner or a brothel? Do they usually serve meals naked in your halls, or is this a special performance just for me?"
The prince let out a soft, chilling laugh, tilting his head as he watched one of the women refill his cup. "That's how they prefer to dress," he said. "They're mermaids."
"Mermaids?" Her voice dripped disbelief.
He chuckled, swirling the dark wine in his goblet. Her gaze sharpened, but before she could retort, the click of measured heels echoed on the stone floor. A new figure entered the room, one unlike the others. Her gown was a deep violet, clinging to every curve, the bodice cut daringly low, displaying her ample bosom like an offering. Her dark hair spilled in waves down her back, and a silver circlet rested across her brow.
She moved with quiet confidence, straight to the prince, placing a hand on his shoulder as she leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth slow, intimate, familiar.
Then, without a word, she slid into the chair beside him.
Maravelle's eyes burned. "Lovely," she muttered. "Is this part of the entertainment too?"
The prince's lips curled into a cool, measured smile. "Maravelle, do show some manners. This is Princess Nyalei of the Oceanborn Court, a royal mermaid
Nyalei smiled lazily, one hand still resting on the prince's arm. "It's a pleasure," she purred. "I've heard so much about you."
"I doubt any of it was flattering," He turned to the prince. "You sure collect them like wine bottles." Maravelle said, her voice like a blade sheathed in silk.
Nyalei sipped her wine. "You should eat, Maravelle. They say mortals wither quickly when their pride is all they dine on."
The prince raised his goblet again, his voice a purr. "Now, now, ladies. Let's not spill the wine before we drink it."
His words dripped with amusement, but his eyes stayed sharp, watching Maravelle like a beast amused by the twitch of its prey.