The forest was never silent. It whispered — through trembling leaves, through the breath of unseen things that lingered long after midnight. Aria moved quietly among them, her cloak brushing against damp moss as the wind carried the scent of rain and blood.

Blood.

Her pulse quickened. She crouched, fingers tracing crimson drops along the roots of an oak. Still warm. Fresh. A wounded animal, perhaps — or something worse. The night in Avelen held more monsters than men ever spoke of.

A soft groan broke the silence. Male. Close. Aria’s breath caught as she followed the sound, pushing through a curtain of vines until she saw him.

He was slumped against a tree, half-covered in mud, his clothes torn and darkened with blood. The moon revealed his face in fragments — sharp cheekbones, a mouth too perfect for mercy, eyes half-open and burning like dying embers.

For a moment, she froze. Every witch knew his name.

Lucien Crowe. The Venom King.

Lord of the Black Citadel. Cursed by gods, untouchable by mortal hands. His very touch was death — or so the legends warned.

Aria should have turned back. Should have left him to the curse he’d earned. But something in the way he breathed — ragged, shallow, human — made her hesitate.

“You’ll die if I leave you,” she whispered.

His eyes flickered open, the faintest glint of silver beneath the moonlight. “And if you stay?” His voice was hoarse, laced with something dark and bitter. “You’ll wish you hadn’t.”

“I’m not afraid,” she lied.

Lucien’s lips curved into something close to a smile — cruel and broken. “Witches always say that before they burn.”

She ignored the warning and knelt beside him. Her hands hovered above his wound — a deep gash along his ribs, poisoned and blackened at the edges. The curse was alive in his veins, crawling like shadows beneath his skin.

Aria closed her eyes and whispered the spell. Light bloomed between her palms — soft, silver, and trembling like her breath. The magic sank into his flesh, fighting the venom that resisted her every word. He flinched, biting back a growl that made her heart stutter.

When it was done, she sagged back, breathless. The forest seemed to hold its breath with her.

Lucien looked down at the fading wound, then up at her. “No one touches me and lives,” he said softly.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not anyone,” she murmured.

For a heartbeat, silence stretched — thick, dangerous, almost intimate. Then he moved, too fast for a wounded man. His hand shot out, gripping her wrist with startling strength. His skin burned cold, and she felt something sharp, electric, crawl beneath her pulse.

Magic. Or maybe venom.

His voice was a low whisper against her ear. “You shouldn’t have done that, witchling.”

And before she could pull away, the forest seemed to fade — the ground trembling beneath them as his curse answered hers.

Their souls collided.

Light. Shadow. Pain.

And then — nothing.

When Aria woke, the world was made of stone and shadows. The air smelled faintly of smoke and iron. Her body ached, her skin fever-hot beneath coarse blankets. For a moment, she thought she was still in the forest—until she saw the walls.

Black marble. Gold runes carved in spirals. The sigil of a serpent biting its own tail.

The Black Citadel.

Panic surged through her chest. She sat up too fast, a sharp pain lancing behind her ribs. The last thing she remembered was his hand around her wrist, that cold fire crawling through her veins.

Lucien.

A low voice broke through her thoughts. “Careful, witchling. The bond hasn’t settled yet.”

He was standing near the doorway, his cloak draped loosely over his shoulders, his eyes glinting like molten steel in the dim light. There was no sign of the man she’d saved—the blood, the weakness—all gone. He looked perfectly alive. Too alive.

“What did you do to me?” Aria whispered.

Lucien tilted his head, a predator studying something fragile. “You touched a cursed man with magic. Our souls collided. My venom runs in your veins now.”

She stared, horrified. “You’re lying.”

He smiled faintly, the kind of smile that promised truth would hurt. “Try using your power.”

Her throat tightened, but she lifted her hand. A flicker of light shimmered in her palm, silver turning slowly to black, until it vanished with a hiss like smoke. Pain shot through her arm, searing, alive.

Aria gasped. “What—”

“My curse feeds on magic,” Lucien said softly. “And your magic feeds on life. Now they feed on each other.” He stepped closer, every movement smooth, deliberate. “You’ve bound yourself to me, witchling. You’ll feel what I feel. Suffer when I suffer.”

“Then unbind it,” she snapped.

“If I could, I would’ve done so centuries ago.” His voice dropped, quiet but edged with something raw. “You’ve just tied yourself to the one man the gods themselves refused to touch.”

The room seemed colder suddenly. Aria wrapped her arms around herself, glaring up at him. “Then kill me. If you’re truly the monster they say you are.”

Lucien’s expression didn’t change—but his gaze darkened, softening at the edges, almost curious. “Death would be mercy. And mercy isn’t something I give easily.”

He stepped closer still, until the distance between them vanished. His hand brushed her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes.

“You saved me, Aria Vale,” he murmured. “Now, I’ll save you—from everyone else. Even if it means destroying what’s left of you.”

Her breath caught, not from fear, but from the strange warmth beneath his words. Something dangerous hummed between them—magic, maybe, or madness.

Then he released her, turning away like the moment never happened. “Rest. You’ll need your strength. The Council will want to see you.”

“Council?”

Lucien paused at the doorway. “The ones who decide which witches burn and which ones I keep.”

And with that, he left her alone in the darkness, her heartbeat echoing like a curse she could never undo.

The next morning, the fortress came alive with whispers. Footsteps echoed down endless corridors lined with silver torches that burned with black flame. Aria followed a silent guard through the labyrinth of halls, her wrists cold from the iron cuffs that shimmered faintly with runes.

Every step deepened the ache beneath her skin — the bond pulsing, alive, restless.

She could feel him.

Lucien’s presence throbbed faintly at the edge of her mind, a pull that wasn’t physical but spiritual, like an invisible thread tugging at her heart. When he was near, the world seemed to tremble. When he was far, she felt it like frost in her veins.

The guard stopped before a massive door carved with serpents and eyes. “The Council awaits,” he said, his voice hollow.

The door opened, and the room beyond seemed carved from night itself. Seven figures sat around a crescent table — robed, faceless, ancient. At the head sat Lucien, calm and radiant in his cruelty. His silver eyes flicked toward her, unreadable.

The moment she stepped inside, the air changed. Power rippled across the chamber, pressing down on her shoulders like invisible chains.

“Aria Vale,” one of the Council members intoned. “Witch of the Valean bloodline. Cursed by her own hand.”

“I didn’t curse myself,” Aria said quietly. “I saved him.”

“Saved,” another voice sneered. “You merged your soul with the Venom King. You’ve tainted yourself with his darkness.”

Her fists clenched. “Then take it out of me. Break it.”

Lucien leaned back in his chair, voice smooth as silk. “You think I haven’t tried? Her magic and mine have fused. She’s bound to me now. Sever the bond, and she dies.”

The words sliced through the room like thunder.

A pause followed, heavy and cold. Then the eldest member spoke. “Then she will live — as his tether.”

Aria’s breath hitched. “His what?”

Lucien’s gaze flicked to hers, dangerous, warning her not to speak. But the Council continued. “The bond can be used. Her light suppresses the curse. As long as she remains close, the poison in your veins will remain dormant.”

“And if she runs?” Lucien asked softly.

“Then your curse will awaken. And she will die within hours.”

The silence that followed felt suffocating. Aria’s chest tightened, fury rising like fire. “You’re using me as a leash.”

Lucien rose from his seat, cloak unfurling behind him like smoke. “Enough.” His voice was quiet, but it silenced the entire chamber. “She’s under my protection. Touch her, and I’ll burn this Council to ash.”

The threat was not an exaggeration — it was a promise.

When the session ended, Lucien’s hand found her arm, his touch cold yet possessive. “You wanted freedom,” he murmured as he led her out. “Now you have none.”

She jerked away, glaring. “You think I’ll just stay here, chained to your curse?”

Lucien’s smile was almost tender — almost. “Not chained, witchling. Chosen. The gods did this, not me.”

But when he looked at her, his eyes gleamed with something far more human than divine — hunger, pain, and a dangerous kind of longing that could swallow them both.