Elvira stood before the tall mirror in her chambers, the fading light of the afternoon casting a golden hue over everything it touched. But nothing gleamed brighter than her.
The dress clung to her like a whispered prophecy — long, regal, and unrelenting in its beauty. A flowing white evening gown hugged her form, the bodice tailored to perfection, tracing the curves of her waist with quiet reverence. The fabric shimmered subtly with every movement, as if woven from the breath of clouds and light itself.
Gold trim wound intricately along the high collar, then swept down the seams of her bell sleeves — sleeves that draped past her fingertips and brushed the floor like holy silk. The designs were delicate yet powerful: floral patterns that seemed to bloom and twist with ancient symbolism, as if the dress were stitched not with thread but with the golden remnants of forgotten magic. Vines, thorns, petals — it was all there, telling a story of beauty born from survival.
Her skirt flowed out slowly from her hips in a subtle flare, like a sigh, ending in a train that cascaded behind her in waves of white and gold. Every step she took would leave echoes of royalty in her wake. The gown didn't just fit her — it answered her. It carried the weight of legacy, power, and sacrifice, and it made her look less like a girl and more like a myth.
But it was the crown that sealed it — that tipped the entire look into divinity.
Nestled against her dark hair, which had been styled into soft waves pinned back at the sides, the crown gleamed like captured starlight. Crafted from gold and moonstone, it arched in delicate points that resembled the petals of a rare celestial flower. Fine chains of gold ran down from either side of it, framing her face like strands of sunlight, catching the light with every breath she took. Small jewels — sapphire, opal, and diamond — were tucked into the metal like drops of dew caught before dawn.
And then there was her face.
Her makeup was subtle, almost deceptive in its softness — a quiet contrast to the power of her attire. Gold shimmer dusted her eyelids, catching the light when she blinked, while her lips held a natural rose hue that only made her look more unreal. There was a tension in her jaw, a silence in her expression — like a storm was waiting just beneath the surface, but her exterior wouldn't dare show it.
She looked like something from an old religion. A goddess of ivory and fire.
Not a girl.
Not a daughter.
Not a bride.
But a sovereign.
And yet, as Elvira stared at herself, unmoving, flawless, untouchable… she felt nothing.
No awe. No pride.
Only hollowness.
She had been polished, gilded, painted into perfection. But the truth clung to her like a second skin: she looked like she belonged on a throne, yes — but not in her own skin.
Not with her own heart.
And most certainly not in someone else's story.
The chamber fell silent.
Not in anticipation.Not in politeness.But in complete, stunned reverence.
The moment Elvira entered, it was like the very air changed — denser, quieter, charged with something unspeakable. Her presence hit like a shift in gravity. Heads turned slowly, breaths were caught mid-sentence, and somewhere in the distance, a harpist missed a note and didn't even notice.
Anson saw her first.
And for a few terrifying seconds, he couldn't breathe.
It wasn't just that she looked beautiful. No — beautiful was too small a word. This wasn't admiration. This was worship.Elvira looked like she had stepped out of a dream people weren't worthy enough to remember. She wore white and gold like she was born of it, her dress flowing around her like she commanded the wind itself. That crown — that damned crown — caught the firelight and turned it into a halo.
Anson's jaw clenched. His chest tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. She looked untouchable. Distant. Not the Elvira he held close just nights ago. This version of her was a goddess sculpted by duty and dressed in denial. And still — he couldn't look away.
He didn't want to.He didn't dare to.
Alanza, standing just beside him, was the next to react. His lips parted in awe, and he let out a sound — soft and involuntary — like he'd just seen a living legend.
"Oh my stars…" he whispered under his breath, voice trembling. "She looks… she doesn't even look real."
His hands were clasped in front of his chest like he'd forgotten how to carry himself. Elvira's beauty didn't just strike him — it humbled him. Brought him back to the stories they used to whisper as kids: of warrior queens and tragic sirens who never bent to fate. And yet, even those tales didn't come close.
Ronin? Ronin was never speechless. But right now?He might as well have turned to stone.
He blinked slowly, like his brain was still buffering. His eyes scanned her — not in lust, not even in curiosity — but in complete and utter disbelief. Like his friend had been replaced by a divine being and no one told him.
"Is that…?" he muttered, almost to himself.
"No f**king way," he finished, voice hoarse, barely audible.
He wasn't religious. But right now, he felt like praying.
Elvira's father led her with quiet pride, his hand firm on hers, posture regal as if this moment had been carved into destiny. Every eye in the hall followed their path, and when he placed her beside Anson, the air shifted.
She stood tall beside him—head high, gaze unreadable. If anyone noticed the cold distance in her eyes as she stared at her betrothed, no one said a word. But Anson felt it. Gods, he felt it. She was close enough to touch, and yet a thousand miles away.
The ceremonial exchange was brief. The rings were slipped on—gold, ornate, binding. Applause broke out across the room like thunder rolling over polished stone. The crowd surged in, a blur of praise, toasts, and hollow congratulations. Elvira smiled when expected. Bowed when necessary. But the mask weighed heavy.
And eventually, she vanished.
No one saw her leave. No one ever did when she didn't want to be seen.
The courtyard was silent, lit only by moonlight and the gentle flicker of distant lanterns. Elvira sat at the edge of the marble fountain, her gown spread like a white flame around her, catching silver glints in the night air. The jewels in her crown sparkled like stars against her hair. She looked… celestial. Otherworldly.
Like a painting come to life.
Anson found her without meaning to.
Or maybe he'd been looking the whole time.
He didn't say anything at first—just walked up and sat beside her, keeping just enough distance to respect the space she so clearly needed, but close enough to make her aware of him. The night was quiet, save for the trickle of water behind them.
Then, in that signature tone of his, half-teasing, half-awestruck, he said:
"You know… it's really not fair."
She didn't look at him. "What isn't?"
"That you get to look like that and still act like you don't know the effect you have on people."
Elvira gave a soft scoff, eyes still fixed on the moon's reflection in the water. "You think flattery will earn you points?"
"Oh no, sweetheart," Anson said, leaning back on his hands, "I'm not flattering. I'm complaining."
Her lips curved, just barely.
He tilted his head, watching her. "You walked into that hall and half the kingdom forgot how to breathe. I'm pretty sure Ronin stopped blinking. Alanza had a reaction. Alanza."
Elvira finally turned her head toward him, expression unreadable. "And you?"
Anson met her gaze, eyes darker in the moonlight. "I forgot my own damn name for a second."
A beat passed between them—tense, electric.
Then Elvira smirked, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Pity. I thought you'd be used to beautiful things."
"I am," he said quietly. "I just didn't expect to be standing beside one and still feel like I didn't belong there."
That caught her off guard. Her gaze dropped, and for a flicker of a moment, the coldness cracked.
But only just.
She straightened, tone sharp again. "Don't romanticize this. We're only standing beside each other because our parents signed a contract."
"True," he said easily, but with something heavier beneath it. "But that doesn't make you any less of a goddess. Or me any less fucked."
Elvira laughed, low and tired. "You're dramatic."
"You're dangerous."
She glanced sideways. "And you're not?"
He leaned a little closer, voice lower now. "Oh, I am. But I don't wear it like a crown of thorns. You—Elvira—you make heartbreak look like high art."
Her gaze sharpened, lips parting—but she didn't reply.
They sat there for a moment, silence stretching between them like a string pulled too tight.
Then she whispered, "I don't want this."
Anson didn't flinch. "I know."
"But I can't stop it."
"I know that too."
Her jaw clenched. She looked away.
He stood, slowly. "You don't have to play nice with me. But maybe…" He paused, then added, softer, "maybe let me be on your side. Even if you hate the whole damn arrangement."
She didn't respond.
But she didn't tell him to leave, either.
So he did the only thing he could: turned, walked a few paces, and looked back once before disappearing into the shadows.
The moonlight clung to her like a second skin.
And the goddess on the fountain kept her silence.
As the last of the guests filtered out, laughter and music fading into a distant echo, Elvira stood alone in the golden glow of the empty hall. The crown still sat heavy on her head, the dress still pristine, but everything inside her felt like it was splintering.
Where was he?
Her eyes searched the thinning crowd. No Anson. No Ronin. No Alanza. No one.
The ache that bloomed in her chest was sudden and sharp, like something had clawed its way up from her ribs and was now sitting behind her sternum, pressing, demanding. It wasn't anger. It wasn't pride.
It was pain.
Without a word, she turned and walked away.
Her room was cold. Sterile. As if it had been built for someone else—someone quieter, calmer, someone who could sleep beside the weight of expectations and not shatter under them.
But she couldn't.
Before her mind could even catch up to her feet, she was already moving down the corridor. Her pulse was loud in her ears. Her hands trembled at her sides. The hall twisted in dim candlelight, and her heart beat faster with every step.
She reached his door.
She didn't knock.
She couldn't.
She pushed it open and stepped inside, her breath hitching the moment her feet touched the threshold.
The room felt… warm.
Not just physically. But alive. Lived-in. There were books on the side table, his jacket draped over the chair, a dagger tucked beneath a pillow. And the air smelled like cedar, like musk, like him.
It felt complete.
Whole.
And it broke something inside her.
She moved toward the bed, trying to hold onto what little composure she had left—but her knees gave out beneath her and she collapsed, the weight of it all dragging her down. The satin of her gown pooled around her on the floor, and the tears came hot and fast, falling in silent streams down her face.
She didn't sob.
She wept.
Not for the crown. Not for the people. Not even for herself.
She wept because the one place that wasn't hers felt more like home than the palace ever had.
Then—
The bathroom door creaked open.
Steam spilled into the room, curling like a ghost across the floor. Anson stepped out, toweling off his wet hair, shirtless, wearing only sleep pants that clung low to his hips. Drops of water traced lines down his chest and abs, glinting under the soft lamplight.
He froze.
"Elvira?"
Her name left his mouth like a question, like a prayer. His eyes locked onto her crumpled form on the floor beside his bed—his bed—and before she could even lift her head, he was already moving.
He dropped to his knees beside her, voice low and urgent. "Hey—hey, what happened? Are you hurt?"
She didn't answer.
Couldn't.
She just pressed a hand to her chest like she was trying to hold herself together and shook her head.
"I don't know why I'm here," she whispered, eyes rimmed red, "I just… couldn't stay there."
Anson didn't hesitate. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to his chest, warm and bare, the scent of him grounding her in the middle of the chaos. One of his hands cradled the back of her head, the other gripping her waist as if anchoring her.
"You're here," he murmured against her temple. "That's all that matters."
"I feel stupid," she choked out.
"You're not."
"I couldn't breathe."
"I know," he said softly, pulling her tighter. "Neither could I."
They sat there, two halves of something broken, tangled in silence and moonlight.
And in that moment, for once, Elvira didn't feel like she was falling apart.
She felt held.
Elvira stayed buried in Anson's chest for a long moment, her breathing shaky, her fingers curled into the fabric of his sleep pants like she needed something—someone—to hold her together.
"I didn't mean to come here," she said finally, voice low and rough. "I didn't plan to fall apart like this."
Anson's hand gently stroked her back. "You don't need to explain."
"No," she said, pulling back just enough to look up at him, her eyes shining with tears. "I do."
He waited. Calm. Patient. No pressure in his gaze—just that same warm understanding that had always undone her.
"I abandoned you," she said, her voice cracking. "I left you standing there like a stranger. You looked at me like I was everything and I… I stared back like you were nothing. And you still—" she gestured around them helplessly, to the safety of his arms, "you still let me in."
Anson didn't flinch. "Because I knew."
"Knew what?" she asked bitterly. "That I'm a coward?"
"No," he said, gently brushing a strand of hair from her face, "that you were scared."
Her lips parted. Her throat tightened.
"I saw it, Elvira. In your eyes. Every time I touched you like you mattered, every time I spoke to you like you were more than just someone's daughter—you pulled away."
Tears slid silently down her cheeks.
"Because if I mattered to you," he continued, voice soft, "then I could hurt you. I could leave. I could betray you. And if you didn't let me matter, if you kept the mask on, then no one could ever really reach you."
She looked down. Ashamed. Exposed.
Anson tilted her chin up gently. "You thought walking away from me would protect you."
She nodded, silent.
He gave a small, sad smile. "But all it did was hurt both of us."
Her face crumpled. "I didn't want to lose control."
"Then don't control it," he said. "Not with me. You don't have to."
Elvira blinked. "How can you be so… calm?"
"I'm not," he said honestly. "I was angry. I am angry. But not because you're broken or scared. I'm angry that no one ever made you feel safe enough to not be."
That hit her like a slap and a hug at once.
"You deserve love that doesn't make you wear armor," he whispered. "You deserve to fall apart and still be wanted."
She let out a soft, wounded laugh. "I don't even know who I am without the armor."
Anson leaned his forehead against hers. "Then let's find out. Together."
Silence stretched between them, thick with everything they couldn't say, and everything they already understood.
Then she whispered, "You're not going to leave?"
He pulled her back into his arms like the answer was obvious. "Not tonight. Not ever."
Elvira didn't reply. She didn't need to. Her body just folded into his again, like it belonged there, like it had always belonged there. Her forehead rested against his bare chest, and his heartbeat became the lullaby she didn't know she needed.
Anson held her close—one hand tangled gently in her hair, the other tracing soft, grounding circles on her back. No more words passed between them. They didn't need them anymore. Not in this moment.
She breathed in the quiet. The warmth of him. The way his scent felt like safety and chaos all at once.
Her eyes fluttered shut.
He felt it—her tension easing, her breath slowing. And when her grip loosened on him, he didn't move away. He just tightened his hold, his own eyes drifting toward the moonlight spilling in through the window.
Elvira—fierce, guarded, impossible Elvira—had finally let herself rest.
And for the first time in a long time, she didn't fall asleep alone
Elvira's breath slowed, the rise and fall of her chest syncing with the rhythm of Anson's heartbeat beneath her cheek. Her body, so often tensed in defense or defiance, now lay quiet and loose, wrapped entirely in the safety of his arms.
Anson barely moved. One arm cradled her shoulders, the other gently stroked along the curve of her back, his fingertips tracing silent reassurances onto her bare skin. His touch was feather-light, like he was afraid too much pressure would wake her—or worse, make her vanish. She felt so real in his arms, and yet so fragile, like something made of moonlight and porcelain.
He looked down at her, her lashes resting like tiny shadows across her cheeks, lips parted slightly in sleep. Her hand remained on his chest, right over his heart, like she was unconsciously holding it steady.
A soft, contented sigh escaped her, and it undid him completely.
Elvira—the hurricane of fire, thorns, and stubborn pride—was curled against him like she had never known peace until now. He didn't dare speak. He didn't dare move. Because this? This was sacred.
He pressed a gentle kiss to her hairline, tasting the salt of earlier tears and the sweetness of surrender. Not to him, no—that wasn't her style. But maybe to the moment. To the quiet. To letting someone else carry her for once.
His thumb brushed against her temple, memorizing her as she was now. Not poised or armored or pretending to be untouchable. Just Elvira.
Soft. Warm. Human.
A goddess, yes—but one who bled and broke and needed to be held like anyone else.
Anson tucked her closer, their limbs tangled under the weight of night. Elvira was utterly still in his arms, her breaths shallow and steady against his chest. He could tell she'd slipped into sleep by the way her lashes stopped fluttering, her fingers went limp in his, and the tiniest sigh escaped her lips like she'd finally let herself go.
He stared down at her for a moment, heart aching. Gods, how could someone look so ethereal and so breakable all at once?
"You drive me insane, you know that?" he whispered, barely louder than a breath. "All day, every day. With your moods and your stares and your damned silence."
His fingers gently brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. Her skin was warm, glowing in the soft firelight.
"But still…" He swallowed thickly, voice turning softer. "I'd choose you. Every time. Even if you never choose me back."
He chuckled under his breath, but it was a sad, helpless sound. "You act like you don't care. Like none of this matters. Like I don't matter. But then you look at me with those eyes and I know. I know you feel it too, even if you won't say it."
His thumb traced lazy circles on her bare shoulder. She didn't stir.
"I would've waited forever, Elvira," he murmured. "Even when you pushed me away. Even if you did it again tomorrow."
His lips brushed her forehead, a whisper of a kiss. "You don't have to be perfect. You don't have to be strong all the time. Just be with me. That's all I've ever wanted."
She let out a tiny exhale and shifted in her sleep, nestling closer.
Anson smiled to himself, bittersweet and so full of ache it nearly hurt. "Sleep well, goddess. I'll still be here when you wake."
Anson exhaled, burying his nose in her hair, breathing her in like she was something holy. He didn't care that they were tangled in a mess of sheets and vulnerability. He didn't care that everything about them was complicated and dangerous.
Right now, she was his.
And right now... that was enough.