Elara’s POV
Three days had passed since the Draeven gathering.
Three days have passed since Lucas stood before his entire clan and revealed the seal.
Three days since Elara’s world tilted—quietly, irrevocably.
She hadn’t left the apartment.
It wasn’t hers. It wasn’t Lucas’s either. It had been arranged by Riven Lau, Lucas’s assistant—efficient, discreet, and unnervingly perceptive. The unit was tucked into a high-rise near the Nexus building, close enough for Elara to see the rooftop garden she used to visit during breaks. It was safe. Neutral. Untraceable.
She wore her own clothes—black jeans, a soft gray blouse, and a cardigan that still smelled faintly of lavender detergent. Her hair was pulled into a low bun. She looked ordinary. But the seal pulsed beneath her collarbone like a second heartbeat.
She hadn’t spoken to Lucas since the night of the reveal.
Not because she was angry.
Because she didn’t know what to say.
She had admired him once—from a distance. Back when he was still acting. Back when he smiled. Back when he and Kael lit up screens with chemistry that felt too real to be scripted.
She had watched their dramas. Read the interviews. Saw the way Lucas looked at Kael like the world narrowed to one person.
And then Kael died.
And Lucas changed.
Now, he was quiet. Controlled. Protective in ways that felt instinctive, not romantic. He didn’t flirt. He didn’t linger. But he stayed. And that, somehow, mattered more.
The Message
Her phone buzzed.
Lucas: He’s ready to meet you.
Lucas: Regulus. My grandfather.
Elara stared at the message.
Her stomach turned.
She typed: When?
Lucas: Tonight. If you’re willing.
She hesitated.
Then she replied, "I’ll come."
The Draeven estate wasn’t just a home—it was a kingdom.
Nestled on a private ridge, it stretched across 40 hectares of enchanted land. The main manor rose like a fortress of black granite and native hardwood, its facade blending old-world European elegance with Southeast Asian symmetry. Arched windows, carved balustrades, and a central dome etched with the Draeven crest in goldleaf shimmered under the moonlight.
The gates opened without a sound.
Inside, the grounds unfolded like a dream:
Moonbridge Garden, said to bloom only under full moonlight, shimmered with silver petals and whispering vines.
Whispering Bamboo Trail, rumored to echo ancestral voices, curved along the eastern slope.
Koi ponds, marble courtyards, and enchanted groves stretched in every direction.
The manor itself was divided into wings:
East Wing: ceremonial halls, Regulus’s study, and the ancestral archive—sealed by bloodline magic.
West Wing: family residences, each suite tailored to its occupant’s magical affinity.
North Wing: training grounds, dueling arenas, and the vault of rare artifacts.
South Wing: guest quarters, diplomatic suites, and neutral zones for allied clans.
The air smelled of lavender, woodsmoke, and old magic.
Even the silence felt curated.
Lucas led her through the East Wing, past ancestral portraits and polished obsidian floors. The Grand Hall was cathedral-like, with crystal chandeliers that dimmed with mood and walls lined with enchanted portraits—each one watching, waiting.
They reached a carved wooden door.
Lucas knocked once, then opened it.
Inside, the room was warm and dimly lit. Bookshelves lined the walls. A fire crackled in the hearth. And seated in a high-backed chair, posture regal, eyes impossibly sharp—
Regulus Draeven.
Elara froze.
He looked older than she expected. Not frail—never that. But carved from time. His silver hair was swept back, his suit dark and immaculate. Vivianne sat nearby, her gaze unreadable.
Lucas stepped forward. “Grandfather. This is Elara.”
Regulus didn’t rise.
He studied her.
Not with suspicion.
With memory.
“You carry her name,” he said quietly. “Velmira.”
Elara nodded. “Yes.”
“Cassian’s daughter?”
Her voice caught. “Illegitimate.”
Vivianne’s brow lifted slightly. Regulus didn’t react.
“You ran,” he said.
“Yes.”
“To avoid being sealed?”
“To avoid being used.”
Regulus leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “And yet you were sealed anyway.”
Elara glanced at Lucas. “Not by choice.”
Regulus’s gaze flicked to Lucas. “But you stayed.”
Lucas nodded. “We both did.”
A long silence followed.
Then Regulus said, “I was born after the alliance shattered. I never met Alaric. Never saw Seraphina. But I heard the stories. Passed down through our line. Of a love that tried to defy legacy. Of a bond that never formed.”
Elara’s breath caught.
Regulus continued, “They weren’t sealed. You are.”
He stood slowly and walked toward her.
The seal on her collarbone pulsed faintly.
Regulus stopped in front of her; eyes locked on the mark.
“Crimson-gold,” he murmured. “The color of fate. Not politics.”
Vivianne rose stepped beside him. “It’s beautiful,” she said softly.
Regulus nodded. “But dangerous.”
Elara didn’t flinch. “I know.”
Regulus studied her. “Do you love him?”
She hesitated.
But still answered, “I don’t know yet.”
Regulus turned to Lucas. “And you?”
Lucas’s voice was quiet. "I know my responsibility. That has to be enough for now."
Elara’s breath hitched—but she didn’t look at him. She knew that answer. She had felt it in every quiet moment they shared—the weight of his duty, the wall around his heart. It shouldn't have hurt to hear him say it out loud, yet the air in the room suddenly felt thin. She simply nodded once, a small, jerky movement, and stared at a point just over Regulus’s shoulder, refusing to let a single tear betray the fact that she had expected more.
Regulus looked between them.
Then he said, “You’ve reopened a wound that was never allowed to heal. But you’ve also done something no one else has. You’ve made the seal real.”
Vivianne touched Elara’s arm gently. “You’re not what they expected. But you might be what we need.”
Regulus stepped back. “The others will resist. They’ll question. They’ll dig.”
Elara nodded. “Let them.”
Regulus’s mouth curved—just slightly.
“Then welcome,” he said. “To the storm.”
Vivianne stepped forward, her tone shifting—gentle, but firm.
“But since we’re here… let’s talk about what sealed means.”
Lucas straightened slightly.
Vivianne continued, “She’s on the run from her clan. She’s sealed to you. That’s not just a magical bond—it’s a declaration. A contract. A promise.”
Regulus added, “The seal wasn’t activated by ritual, but it’s real. And irreversible. That means you’re bound to her. Not just in theory. In life.”
Elara’s breath caught.
Vivianne’s gaze didn’t waver.
“So, what’s your plan, Lucas? If the Velmiras come for her, do you stand between them? If she’s cast out, do you take her in? If she’s forced to marry someone else, do you fight it?”
Lucas didn’t speak.
Vivianne’s voice softened. “Because this isn’t a courtship, Lucas. It’s an anchor. It means your life is no longer your own—it belongs to the bond. It means where she goes, you follow; what she suffers, you bleed.”
Lucas looked at Elara.
She didn’t meet his eyes.
Vivianne stepped back. “Don't worry about your heart; it will catch up or it won't. But your loyalty? That has to be absolute. You don't have to love her to save her, but you do have to choose to be the one who stays.”
Regulus nodded.
"The Draeven line has no room for the undecided. If you aren't her shield, Lucas, then you are her cage. Choose now, or I will choose for you."