Season 1: Awakening the Viliness

  Ch 3: Would My Lady Like Her Pet?

  The morning light slid through gauzy curtains, bathing the room in a muted gold glow. Mira sat rigidly upright, her skin still humming from the silent ritual of dressing, the yers of silk and rose-scented oils clinging to her like a second skin.

  When the final touch was made, one of the maids moved to a small side table near the window—cquered rosewood, inid with gold leaf vines that curled around the legs like ivy. A fresh tea service waited there, already steaming. Mira hadn’t heard anyone bring it in.

  The maid poured without instruction: pale porcein, honeyed tea, a single rose petal floating on the surface—too perfect to have fallen by accident.

  Mira stood—unsure if she should—but no one stopped her. She crossed the room with what she hoped passed for confidence and lowered herself into the chair like it had always belonged to her. She felt tall. Composed. Elevated in ways that made her skin itch beneath the gloves.

  She lifted the cup, careful and precise. The handle was delicate enough to snap if she held it wrong. The first sip nearly made her moan. It was sweet, spiced, ced with something warm that tasted expensive. Not just fvour—craft. This wasn’t a drink. It was an offering.

  She took a second sip, smaller, slower.

  The maid closest to her tilted her head and said, with perfect poise, "Would my dy like her pet this morning?"

  Mira nearly choked. For a split second, she forgot where she was, what she was, the new body she inhabited and the world she had fallen into. The tea froze halfway to her lips, her fingers tightening around the cup. Her heart thudded, sharp and loud.

  Three pairs of eyes met hers, calm and expectant.

  They weren’t asking because they needed her answer. They were asking because it was routine. The script. Nysera’s script.

  Her mind raced. Say no, and you’re weak. Say yes, and you’re complicit. Pick one.

  Mira set the cup down with care. Not shaking. Not rushed. As if nothing was wrong. As if this wasn’t the moment everything hinged on.

  She folded her hands neatly in her p and met the maid’s gaze.

  "Yes," she said. Steady. Low. Cold. "Bring him."

  The maids bowed and slipped from the room, their departure silent and choreographed. Mira remained at the table, her hands folded, her tea cooling beside her. The cup still bore the imprint of her lips, like evidence of a crime.

  The silence grew heavy.

  Then the door opened.

  Two attendants entered, dressed in darker robes. Between them, led by a bck velvet leash, was a man on his hands and knees.

  Mira's breath caught.

  He crawled into the room, led by the leash clipped to a silver colr at his throat. His body was a study in power barely restrained—broad-shouldered and predatory, every line of him honed like a bde left too long in the fire. Ink-bck hair curled unruly at the nape of his neck, uneven as if no one dared cut it. His skin was bronze-kissed, marred with subtle scars that hinted at old chains and restraint sigils, the faint shimmer of runes still visible along the elegant line of his spine. His trousers clung low to his hips, pin but doing nothing to hide the strength of his frame. He moved with silent, deliberate precision—each glide of his palm against the marble costing something, each motion a careful, exquisite submission. Over his eyes, a bck silk blindfold, embroidered with tiny roses, robbed him of sight but not of dignity. He was devastatingly alluring—dangerously so—like a predator forced to bow but never truly broken.

  And he was beautiful.

  Not safe, storybook beautiful—but the kind of beautiful that promised cliffs before they crumbled, wolves before they vanished into shadow. Every line of him was tension held tight, stillness learned through cruelty.

  The attendants guided him to the centre of the room, pcing him with careful precision. Silent and blindfolded, he knelt alone as they retreated without a word, vanishing as smoothly as they had appeared.

  Mira didn’t breathe.

  He shifted, slowly and reverently, sitting back on his heels, hands ft to the floor. He wasn’t supplicating. He was waiting. Like a command was owed but not yet given.

  Then—soft, wrecked, barely a whisper:

  "Please."

  Luceran.

  Still blindfolded. Still on his knees. Still waiting like a prayer at a dangerous altar.

  Mira stared, spine straight, shoulders back, hands folded in her p like this was normal.

  She adjusted her gloves with slow, precise movements, masking the tremor in her fingers. The silence was thick enough to taste. She didn’t dare clear her throat. Nysera wouldn't have. Nysera would let him squirm.

  But he wasn’t squirming.

  He was utterly still. Trained. Bowed but not broken. His breath was steady. His posture impeccable. It was unbearable.

  Okay, Mira thought. He hasn’t snapped. That’s something.

  The urge to ugh bubbled in her chest—not humour, hysteria. Last week, her biggest problem was a passive-aggressive Sck thread. Now she was trying not to die at the hands of a kneeling war-god. She uncrossed her legs with slow, deliberate grace, rising in one smooth movement. Her slippers skimmed across the marble as she stepped forward, her gown trailing behind in silent ceremony. Her face stayed composed, regal, betraying none of the frantic spiralling under her skin.

  She knew who he was.

  Luceran.

  The Duke.

  The final trial.

  The man whose downfall had cracked her heart open more nights than she could count. Now he was here. Not raging. Not broken yet. Crawling.

  She moved closer, each step deliberate. Stopped just before him, the hem of her gown brushing the marble between them.

  He didn’t move.

  She raised her hand, hesitated for the briefest moment, then brushed her fingers against the blindfold. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn toward her. That somehow made it worse. She loosened the knot with careful fingers, the silk slipping free and pooling in her hand. He stayed bowed, eyes closed, breath steady—until he lifted his head. Their eyes met—her cool silver-grey gaze cshing with his molten gold, sunlight trapped behind fire. The contrast was stark, startling. Worlds colliding in a single, breathless moment. No hatred. No recognition. Only stillness, cool and watchful. A flicker crossed his expression—confusion, maybe. Or deja vu.

  Mira held her breath.

  He doesn’t know me. But he’s not empty. Not yet.

  He watched her, waiting. Not pleading. Not aggressive. Just—present. Resigned.

  Up close, Mira thought he smelled of roses, ash, and something divine left too long to rot. The impression clung to him—an ancient wrongness buried under beauty. She imagined servants would avoid his gaze; animals would watch him like they remembered him from another life. He did not simply exist—in her mind, he stalked, he waited, he reigned in silence.

  Mira’s gaze flickered downward—and she immediately regretted it.

  Tension sculpted every line of him. Power, folded and contained, every inch a reminder of what he was capable of—and what he could become. Mira's gaze betrayed her, skimming lower, catching on the undeniable shape of him beneath the simple trousers, and her stomach pitched.

  Definitely don’t think about his cock from chapter ten. Absolutely not. This is not the time.

  She remembered it—vivid, uncomfortably detailed—and had to cmp down hard on her horrified instinct to pretend she hadn’t seen anything at all. Definitely not the time to recall exactly what he could do, and absolutely not the time to let him see she knew.

  Focus. He’s traumatised, possibly magical, and you’re wearing gloves that cost more than your rent.

  She stepped back half a pace, regathering herself.

  She couldn’t stay silent forever. Nysera wouldn’t have. But if she said the wrong thing—if she faltered, or softened, or cracked—she wasn’t sure what would happen. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Maybe he’d lunge for her throat, or worse, recognise that she wasn’t the woman who kept him chained, and that would be enough to break him anyway.

  Her lips parted, and when she spoke, her voice was steady.

  "Tell me," she said, "do you know why you're on your knees... or is it just habit by now?"

  Not mercy. Not cruelty.

  Bait.

  And in the breathless silence that followed, Mira smiled like she wasn’t afraid of the answer.