In a dimly lit park in Velentis Veil, Caspian stood over a group of defeated gang members, their groans barely audible as they lay sprawled on the ground. He flexed his hands, his razor-sharp nails catching the faint light. “These idiots really thought they could take me down? I’ve got the claws of a bear,” he sneered, examining his nails with a smirk.
Reaching for his phone, he tapped it to his ear. “What’s this I’m hearing? Two guys took down Roofie’s strip club? One of them wiped out the whole crew on his own?” Caspian chuckled, his voice dripping with disdain. “Am I supposed to be impressed? Or scared? Not happening.” He hung up, slipping the phone into his pocket as he cracked his knuckles.
With one last glance at the fallen gang, he scoffed. “Let’s see what these tough guys are really made of.” His grin widened as he stepped into the shadows, his predatory aura unshaken.
Maren and Dorian strolled through the shadowed streets of Valentis Veil, their footsteps echoing in the oppressive silence. Spotting a woman leaning against a lamppost, Dorian approached her with a calm demeanor. “What do you know about a pimp establishment?” he asked, his tone firm yet composed.
The woman chuckled seductively, trailing her finger along her lips. “Oh, I might know a little something,” she teased, her voice dripping with allure. “But here in Valentis, lust is the currency. So, tell me, handsome—what are you going to do for me?” She bit her finger, smirking as if she held all the cards.
Before Dorian could respond, Maren stepped forward, his patience long gone. He grabbed her by the collar and slammed her against the wall, his eyes burning with frustration. “We don’t have time for your games! Just tell us where the Kissing Haven is!” he barked, his voice sharp and unyielding.
The woman’s smirk vanished, replaced by wide-eyed fear. “I-it’s in Honey’s Brew!” she stammered, trembling under his glare.
Maren released her with a scoff, letting her crumple to the ground. Without another word, he turned and walked away, Dorian silently following at his side. The air between them was heavy as they disappeared deeper into the city’s labyrinthine streets.
In the dimly lit Kissing Haven, Tristan lounged back in his chair, a girl perched on his lap as he sipped champagne. Across from him, Quinn unzipped a duffel bag, pulling out small packets of pills. “Gotta square things with the South for this shipment,” Quinn muttered, his eyes scanning the contents as he began counting.
“Yo, you still holding onto that thing?” Tristan asked lazily, brushing the girl’s hair aside as she leaned against him.
Quinn chuckled, reaching into the bag and pulling out a small glass jar containing a delicate, blood-red flower. “You’re damn right I am,” he said with a grin. “This here’s late King Dracula’s blood orchid. We could sell this for a fortune—enough to buy out the South and then some.” He admired the flower for a moment before setting it aside, his attention drawn to a group of girls timidly exiting one of the back rooms.
“Why’re you back already?” Quinn asked one of them, his tone sharp. The girl hesitated, her hand trembling as she adjusted her scant outfit.
“The customer hit me,” she admitted softly, her voice cracking. Tears shimmered in her eyes as she avoided Quinn’s gaze.
Tristan’s expression darkened. Grabbing the girl by her hair, he yanked her down toward him. “You little bitch! You’d rather run back here than take a few slaps from him? What the fuck’s wrong with you?” he snarled, slapping her hard across the face.
The girl sobbed, crumpling to her knees. “Please,” she begged, her voice breaking. “Let me go home to my family!”
Quinn scoffed, kicking her in the side with enough force to make her collapse further. “Your family sold you to us, dumbass,” he said coldly. “You’re better off here than starving with them.”
Tristan shook his head, leaning back as if her pleading were nothing more than an inconvenience. “Get the fuck out of my sight before I make you regret coming back,” he growled, pushing the girl away with a dismissive wave.
The girl scrambled to her feet, clutching her side as she stumbled back toward the shadows, her cries fading into the oppressive gloom of the room.
“Anyway, what do we know about the guy who trashed Roofie’s place?” Quinn asked, leaning back as he toyed with a knife in his hand.
Tristan let out a bored yawn, stretching his arms lazily. “I don’t know, I heard someone say it was Maren or something,” he replied nonchalantly.
Quinn’s eyes widened, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Maren? As in the former king of Atlantis? No shit! If that’s true, we could snag his trident and sell it for a fortune!”
Tristan smirked, casually running a hand through his tousled hair. "Yeah, that’s if he doesn’t cut through us first," he said with a dry laugh, the thought clearly amusing him. Leaning back, he added, "Besides, word is they sent him to the wrong Kissing Haven anyway."
In the wrong Kissing Haven, Dorian sat across from Rufus, who lounged confidently with a group of girls draped around him. Rufus raised an eyebrow. “So, you wanna be a pimp for Lust, huh?” he asked, swirling his drink lazily.
Dorian nodded, sipping from his glass with calculated restraint. “Yes. I come from a bad home and want to do this. I’ve got the funds to back it up.” He pulled out a hefty wad of knight coins and tossed it onto the table.
Rufus glanced at the coins, then back at Dorian, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Bad home, huh? Fine, I could probably set you up in the South.” He slapped one of the girls on her thigh, making her flinch, before turning back to Dorian. “By the way, did you hear about Aurora? Merlin Shadowbane’s kid—dead. They murdered him!” He chuckled, shaking his head.
Dorian paused mid-sip, his grip tightening slightly on the glass. After a beat, he continued drinking, masking his reaction. “Yes, I’ve heard. But what does it matter? These are the Seven Deadly Kingdoms,” he said evenly.
Rufus let out a boisterous laugh. “I’m just saying, you’d think the son of a guy like Merlin would’ve ruled at least one kingdom before biting the dust. Died at the hands of his former master, no less. How pathetic is that?” He erupted in laughter.
Dorian’s eye twitched slightly, but he maintained his composure and took another sip. “Let’s not disrespect the dead,” he said, his voice cool but edged with warning.
Unbothered, Rufus casually spilled his drink on one of the women’s shirts, eliciting a startled yelp. “Ah, I just love my women,” he said with a laugh, entirely ignoring her discomfort. Dorian stood slowly, his presence suddenly commanding.
Rufus’s grin widened. “What’s wrong? Gonna pay tribute to your old, dead friend, Dorian Dracula?” he sneered, raising his voice. At his signal, a group of men armed with bats emerged from the shadows.
Dorian calmly removed his mask, his face set in stone. “How’d you know it was me?” he asked.
Rufus chuckled darkly. “Should’ve taken off that bloodthorn ring, King Dorian.” He leaned back smugly, eyeing Dorian’s hand.
Dorian pulled a dagger from his belt, his knuckles cracking as he gripped the blade.
Rufus smirked. “Your buddy Maren? He’s probably getting ripped apart by Caspian’s claws right about now. Can’t believe you came to the wrong Kissing Haven.” He laughed again.
Dorian’s lips curled into a sharp smile. “I hate the bastard, but trust me—he’s not one to go down so easily.”
Meanwhile, in the park, Caspian’s claws slashed through the air as Maren narrowly dodged. “You think you’re hot shit?!” Caspian snarled, charging forward.
Maren jumped high, landing a fierce kick to Caspian’s head. The blow sent the larger man stumbling, but he quickly recovered and swiped his claws again, this time grazing Maren’s arm.
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Grunting, Maren steadied himself. “Where’s the real Kissing Haven?” he demanded, his eyes burning with determination.
Caspian chuckled through the pain, a wicked grin on his face. “Across the street from the fake one,” he said with a wheezing laugh.
"Alright, I’ll handle this," Maren growled, gripping the trident tightly. He drove it into Caspian repeatedly, each strike punctuated by raw force until Caspian collapsed to the ground, unconscious and motionless. Maren stood over him for a moment, catching his breath, then straightened his coat.
“And that’s my cue to dip,” he muttered, turning on his heel and striding out of the park without a second glance.
In the dimly lit fake Kissing Haven, Maren stepped inside, his boots crunching against shattered glass and debris. His eyes scanned the room, landing on Dorian, who stood amid a sea of fallen bodies, a blood-streaked dagger hanging loosely in his hand. The faint flicker of a dying light cast shadows across his face, but his calm expression was unnervingly cold.
"Come on," Dorian said flatly, stepping over the carnage without sparing the bodies a second glance.
Maren nodded, his expression unreadable as they left the wreckage behind and approached the real Kissing Haven.
When they entered, the atmosphere shifted like a thunderclap. Tristan and Quinn, lounging confidently moments earlier, shot to their feet as if struck by lightning. Their faces twisted with fear, their eyes wide with the unmistakable look of prey cornered by predators. The weight of dread hung heavy in the air—two kings from Aurora had just walked through their doors, their presence an undeniable reminder of power and wrath.
Quinn’s hand twitched, moving slightly toward his weapon, but Tristan’s trembling arm caught his wrist. Neither dared make a sound.
Dorian strolled forward with an unnerving calm, his footsteps echoing through the tense silence. Without a word, he plucked the blood orchid from the table. "Thanks," he said, his voice a dagger in itself, sharp and cold.
The two kings turned and left without looking back, their exit just as chilling as their arrival. Tristan and Quinn stood frozen, their breath shallow, the realization sinking in—they had been spared, but the shadow of death had lingered close enough to feel its chill.
On the outskirts of Lust, under the faint glow of lanterns swaying in the salty breeze, Maren leaned against a weathered post and looked at Dorian. “Thanks for the money,” he said quietly, his voice carrying an unusual softness. “So, you’re really leaving, huh?”
Dorian adjusted his coat and gave a small nod, his eyes fixed on the gentle ripples of the water. “Yeah,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically subdued. “And... thanks for that wake-up call earlier. I needed it.”
Maren shrugged, trying to play it off. “It’s cool,” he muttered, but there was a hint of guilt in his voice. “Who was I to tell you how to rule?”
Dorian’s lips curved into a faint smile, the kind that felt rare and sincere. “We could be partners,” he offered, his gaze meeting Maren’s. “Secret partners. You know, when the time’s right.”
Maren chuckled under his breath, shaking his head but unable to hide the flicker of warmth in his eyes. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?”
Dorian smirked, then stepped onto the small boat waiting at the dock. The soft creak of the wooden planks under his weight broke the silence. As the boat pushed off, he turned back one last time.
Maren stood there, his figure outlined by the dim light, watching him go. When the boat drifted into the mist, he let out a long, tired sigh.
“I can’t leave,” Maren murmured to himself, his voice heavy with conviction, “not until I see Michelangelo again.”
Epilogue
The brief yet intense arc between Maren and Dorian came to an end. The Kissing Haven, battered and humiliated, buried the incident deep, unwilling to let the shame of their defeat stain their reputation.
Meanwhile, in the shadowed depths of Camelot, Elowen sat in a small, dimly lit cell. Her once-proud bearing was reduced to a rebellious determination as she gnawed at the chains binding her wrists. The cold steel cuffs bit into her skin, but her defiance burned brighter.
“Princess Elowen, stop that,” a cold, taunting voice echoed from the darkness. A figure cloaked in shadow stepped forward, its presence both unnerving and suffocating. “You’re no longer a princess. You’re King Liam’s prisoner now. He couldn’t risk you taking what he values most—his throne. So, here you are. Simple as that.”
The figure’s voice dripped with mockery as it held up a syringe glinting faintly in the pale light. Without hesitation, the needle pierced her neck, and a strange, icy liquid coursed through her veins. Elowen’s vision blurred, her strength leaving her in a tide of numbness.
Her body slumped forward, unconscious, but even as she fell, the embers of her resolve remained—dormant but unextinguished.
In the shadowy depths of the Gluttony Kingdom, a teenage girl sat in the corner of a hidden, dimly lit restaurant. The air was thick with the scent of spices and the muffled murmur of clandestine conversations. Her fingers gripped a newspaper tightly, her purple eyes burning with rage as she read the headline.
“My husband was killed?” she hissed, her voice laced with venom. The paper crinkled under her tightening grasp, and her sharp glare seemed to pierce the ink on the page. Behind her, the faint outline of a ghostly figure loomed, its presence chilling yet eerily familiar. Its glowing purple eyes mirrored hers, their light resonating with an uncanny intensity—the same brilliance that had once shone in Melanthius’ gaze.
Without a word, the girl raised her hand, and a swirling cloud of arcane energy engulfed the newspaper. The crackling tendrils of vapor consumed it entirely, leaving no trace. The magic was strikingly similar to Melanthius’—a signature of her connection to him. Her lips curled into a defiant smile as she whispered, almost to herself, “You’re not dead, Melanthius. I can feel it.”
This was Althara Shadowbane. Power: unknown. Family: unknown. Yet one thing was clear—her presence was not to be underestimated.
She recalled the day she had innocently married Melanthius Shadowbane and taken his last name. What had started as a whimsical moment of childish play had etched itself into her heart as a promise far stronger than she’d realized at the time.
Flashback
The guard chuckled, setting her down gently. With a skip and a hop, the girl approached Mel, who sat at the cafeteria table, staring at her as if she were an alien from another world.
“Uh, hello?” she said, tilting her head, her wide purple eyes sparkling with curiosity.
Mel nodded slowly, his gaze unwavering. “Are you… the moon?” he asked, his voice small and uncertain.
Her cheeks flushed, heat rising for reasons she couldn’t fully comprehend. Puffing her chest out, she yelled, “I’m not the moon!” Her voice was loud enough to make Mel flinch.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, staring back down at his bowl of soup. “You remind me of it. You’re so shiny.”
Her breath hitched, clutching her chest as if her heart couldn’t handle the weight of the compliment. “I… I’m Althara,” she managed to stammer. “My father’s here looking for a job. We’re, um… lower class.”
Mel’s brow furrowed, his young mind working through the information. “I’m Melanthius. Call me Mel. My father was Merlin Shadowbane.”
Her expression froze, eyes widening in shock. “A-as in the overlord who conquered multiple kingdoms?!”
Mel nodded, unbothered, and resumed slurping his soup.
“Melanthius Shadowbane…” she repeated, tasting the heaviness of his name. Then, without hesitation, she climbed onto the table, her movements bold and unapologetic. She plopped herself down in front of him, completely ignoring the shocked stares of the guards. “From today on, me and you are together!”
Mel tilted his head, his face blank with confusion. “Together?”
“Yes!” she declared, her voice filled with childish conviction. “My father says the best relationships are long-distance! Well… I think that’s what he meant.”
Mel nodded hesitantly, still not entirely sure what she was talking about. “Okay.”
Grinning ear to ear, Althara pulled a rubber band from the floor and stretched it around her fingers like a makeshift ring. “From now on, I’m Althara Shadowbane! You may now kiss the bride!”
Before the moment could continue, the cafeteria door slammed open. The towering man from earlier stormed in, his face a mask of fury. His eyes locked on Melanthius, and without a word, he grabbed the boy by the back of his head, slamming his face into the table.
“You criminal bastard!” the man snarled, kicking Mel in the stomach with all his strength.
Mel gagged and coughed, but he stayed silent, his small frame shaking from the impact. The guards didn’t move, their faces grim and detached, as if this was a scene they had witnessed before.
“You dare talk to my daughter?!” the man spat, delivering another brutal kick. “Your father destroyed half my kingdom, and now you think you can speak to her?!”
Mel’s body crumpled under the weight of the blows, his vision darkening as his eyes began to roll back. Outside, the sky shifted ominously, and thunder rumbled in the distance. Suddenly, a jagged bolt of black lightning struck the towering walls of Caldara Bastille, briefly lighting up the grim cafeteria.
“Stop, Daddy!” Althara screamed, throwing herself between her father and Mel.
The man shoved her aside with a sneer. “Move, Althara! Nobody’s going to save this damned kid—not the guards, not anyone! Nobody here likes him!” He raised his foot to deliver another strike when a deafening crack of thunder shook the room.
Mel’s eyes shot open, glowing faintly with a purple hue. His trembling voice broke through the chaos. “Please… stop.”
At that moment, the prison warden and a younger Caldric appeared in the doorway. The warden’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and commanding. “That’s enough. We don’t have a job for you.”
The man’s face twisted in anger, but he gave a stiff bow. “Yes, sir.” He grabbed Althara roughly by the arm, dragging her toward the exit.
Althara bit her lip, her heart aching as she glanced back at Mel’s small, battered form lying motionless on the cold floor. Tears welled in her eyes as she clutched the rubber band tightly in her palm. “Is he always like this? He’s just a kid,” she whispered before disappearing with her father.
Present
“I’ll avenge you,” she muttered, her voice low and fierce. Her body flickered, dissolving into a swirling cloud of magic before flowing soundlessly out of the window, leaving behind only the faintest trace of her presence.