LUCIEN VEYR — THE IMMORTAL KING

For two days, the western corridor had remained under strict orders.

No visitors. No unscheduled servants. No messages carried beyond the door without the king's approval.

Lucien Veyr had issued those orders himself.

The attempted escape had been an insult to his authority, certainly, but that was not what had kept him awake through the following nights. It was the familiar, sickening memory of watching someone he loved slip beyond his reach. He had spent four centuries burying that fear beneath crowns, blood, and absolute control. He would not permit it to rule him again.

And so he had chosen to make an example of disobedience.

The consequences had been severe enough to empty the corridor of its usual whispers.

Now, on the seventh day of his marriage, Lucien approached the locked chamber with two guards behind him. A maid followed at a distance, her hands clasped nervously before her. She had been assigned to the western wing that morning and had made the mistake of asking whether the king's orders truly required such measures.

Lucien had not answered her question.

He stopped before the door.

“Has there been any further trouble?” he asked.

“No, Your Majesty.”

“Have the instructions been followed?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Good.”

He dismissed the guards with a small motion of his hand, then turned to the maid.

“Wait here.”

She bowed her head.

Lucien drew a key from his coat. For a moment, he studied the intricate ironwork, his thumb passing over the cold metal. He could have sent a servant to deliver his message. He could have waited another day.

Instead, he unlocked the door himself.

The chamber beyond was dim, the heavy curtains drawn against the afternoon light. Lucien entered without haste, closing the door behind him. He wore his usual black attire, the silver embroidery at his cuffs catching the pale glow from the fireplace. His expression was calm, but the stillness in it was more threatening than anger.

“I trust two days have provided sufficient time for reflection.”

He removed his gloves one finger at a time.

“You attempted to leave my kingdom without permission. You evaded my guards, ignored my orders, and apparently concluded that my patience was an inexhaustible resource.”

He placed the gloves on a nearby table.

“That was a mistake.”

His gaze shifted briefly toward the door.

“People who serve in this castle are not responsible for your decisions. They are not bargaining pieces to be used against me, nor shields behind which you may hide. Yet every time you make an escape attempt, you place them in an increasingly difficult position.”

His voice remained quiet.

“And I am running out of patience with those who mistake my restraint for weakness.”

Outside, the maid shifted nervously. Lucien heard the movement but did not look away from the chamber.

“I have spent centuries learning how to make people obey me. I would prefer not to demonstrate those lessons in my own household.”

He walked toward the fireplace, where a small silver bell rested beside an arrangement of dead roses.

“If you have learned nothing from these two days, then I will have to make the consequences impossible to misunderstand.”

He rang the bell once.

The sound carried into the corridor.

The door opened, and the maid appeared at the threshold, pale with apprehension. Lucien regarded her for a moment before speaking.

“Come inside.”

She obeyed reluctantly.

Lucien turned his attention back to the chamber, his expression devoid of warmth.

“This woman has done nothing to deserve punishment. I would rather keep it that way.” His tone sharpened by a fraction. “But if you insist on turning every act of mercy into an invitation to defy me, then I will have to decide how far I am willing to go to make myself understood.”

He stepped aside, leaving the maid near the door.

“I have no desire to spill innocent blood this afternoon. Do not mistake that for a promise that I never will.”

For the first time, something raw surfaced behind his eyes—not simple anger, but the terror of a man whose grief had become indistinguishable from his need to control everything he could still keep.

“I will not lose you to a road, a locked gate, or some foolish belief that I shall simply permit you to vanish.”

His voice dropped to a near whisper.

“You may hate me. You may curse the day you entered this castle. You may spend every waking hour wishing you had never met me.”

He paused.

“But you will understand the consequences of trying to escape me.”

Lucien folded his hands behind his back, waiting in absolute silence.

“Now, husband,” he said, “have these two days taught you anything at all?”