The Hunt
He found them on the rooftop adjacent to Nana's chambers—three figures dressed in black, their faces covered, their movements efficient and professional.
They'd already disabled two of the palace guards and were preparing to breach her window.
The same window Rafayel had used just minutes ago.
The same sanctuary where she slept peacefully, completely unaware of the death creeping toward her.
No.
The thought was clear, absolute, non-negotiable.
Absolutely not.
Rafayel dropped into their midst like a falling star, lightning crackling around his form. He didn't announce himself. Didn't give them a chance to explain or negotiate or surrender.
He just moved.The first assassin died before he even registered the attack—Rafayel's blade opening his throat with surgical precision.
The man made a small, surprised sound and then crumpled, his blood painting the tiles black in the moonlight.
The second assassin was faster, managed to get his weapon up in defense. It didn't matter. Rafayel was water and wind and lightning, was every element bound into a form that moved like death incarnate. He flowed around the man's guard, his blade finding the gap in the armor, the soft place between ribs where steel could slide home and stop a heart.
The assassin's eyes widened behind his mask—shocked recognition of who and what stood before him.
The most dangerous killer in five kingdoms, that look said. And we thought we could take his target?
Rafayel watched those eyes go glassy and felt nothing. No satisfaction. No remorse. Just cold, clear purpose.
She's mine to protect. Anyone who threatens her dies.
The third assassin was already running, had seen enough to know this was a fight he couldn't win. Smart. But not smart enough.
Rafayel gestured almost casually, and lightning answered his call. It struck the fleeing figure with perfect accuracy, dropping him instantly. The smell of burned flesh and ozone filled the air.
Silence fell over the rooftop, broken only by Rafayel's breathing and the distant sounds of the city below.
Three bodies. Three threats eliminated.
Three people who would never touch her, never harm her, never even get close to her.
Rafayel looked down at the blood on his blade, then toward the window where she slept.
The contrast was almost poetic. Death out here. Peace in there. And him standing between the two, the only barrier that kept one from becoming the other.
This is what you are now, he told himself. Not her executioner. Her guardian. The monster who kills other monsters so she can sleep safely.
The bond mark pulsed warmly against his chest, and if Rafayel didn't know better, he'd say it felt almost proud.
Rafayel stayed on that rooftop for hours, watching her window, making sure no other threats emerged. He should have left—should have gone to ground, maintained his cover as the assassin everyone thought he was. But he couldn't make himself move.
What if there were more? What if he left and someone else tried? What if the one night he wasn't watching was the night someone succeeded where he'd failed?
Failed? a voice in his mind questioned. Is that what you're calling it now? Protecting her is failure?
Yes. No. Maybe.
It was failure in the sense that he wasn't doing what he was supposed to do. Wasn't being the king his people needed. Wasn't making the hard choices that would save his kingdom.
But it was success in the sense that she was alive. Safe. Sleeping peacefully while he stood guard like some lovesick sentinel.
You're pathetic, he told himself without heat. A god reduced to a watchdog. A king abandoning his kingdom for a girl who doesn't even know you love her.
But being pathetic didn't make him leave.
He sat on the edge of the roof, his blade across his knees, his eyes never leaving her window.
The night deepened around him, stars wheeling overhead in their eternal dance.
The city gradually quieted until only the night watch remained, their patrol routes predictable and easy to avoid.
And still Rafayel didn't move.
Four days, he thought. Four days until our next meeting. Until she summons me again or sneaks out to meet me at the market.
Four days to figure out what he was going to do. How he was going to save his people without killing her.
How he was going to be both the king they needed and the man she deserved.
How he was going to break fate itself and rewrite an ending that had been set in stone for millennia.
Or four days to accept that you've already made your choice, that traitorous voice whispered. And it wasn't your kingdom.
Rafayel wanted to deny it. Wanted to insist that he was still searching for a solution, still committed to finding a way to save everyone.
But sitting on that rooftop, watching over her while she slept, having just killed three men for the crime of threatening her...He couldn't lie anymore.
Not even to himself.
He'd chosen her the moment he'd drawn his blade in the forest and then put it away. Maybe even before that. Maybe a hundred years ago on a beach, or three days ago in an alley, or in every moment between.
She's mine, the bond mark whispered. She's always been mine. And I will protect her until the seas run dry and the stars fall from the sky and there's nothing left but dust and memory.
Even if it costs me everything.
Especially if it costs me everything.
Because that was what love meant to a Lemurian. Not the pretty sentiment humans wrote poetry about. But the deep, primal, all-consuming devotion that would burn the world to keep one person safe.
And he'd been burning for her for a hundred years.He just hadn't admitted it until now.
The moon traced its arc across the sky. The night watch made their rounds. And Rafayel sat vigil over a princess who didn't know she'd claimed a god's heart without even trying.
Who didn't know she'd won a war she hadn't known she was fighting.
Who slept peacefully in her tower while outside, her guardian angel—or maybe her guardian monster—kept the darkness at bay.
Four more days, Rafayel thought as the first hints of dawn began to paint the eastern horizon.
Then I'll see her again. Hold her again. Pretend for a few more hours that this story might have a happy ending.
And maybe by then, I'll have figured out how to save her and my kingdom both.
Or maybe I'll finally accept that I've already chosen, and live with the consequences.
Either way, one thing was certain.
No one was taking her from him.
Not other assassins.
Not fate.
Not even the duty he'd been born into.
She was his.
And he was done pretending otherwise.
.
.
.
.
.
🐚🐚🐚
The Waiting
Nana had been counting down the hours like a miser counting coins, each one precious and achingly slow. Four days had felt like four years, every minute stretching into eternity while she waited for the palace to descend into the beautiful chaos of her father's birthday preparations.
And now, finally, finally, the day had arrived.
The palace was a hive of orchestrated madness. Servants rushed through corridors carrying armfuls of silk banners and fresh flowers. Musicians practiced in the great hall, their melodies competing and clashing. Chefs shouted orders in the kitchens while the smell of honey cakes and roasted meats filled the air.
Even the royal guard seemed distracted, their attention split between their usual duties and the additional security the celebration demanded.
It was perfect.
Nana stood in her chambers, practically vibrating with anticipation, the fishtail beacon already warm in her hands. She'd been holding it for the past hour, working up the courage to use it, afraid somehow that this time it wouldn't work. That the magic had been a dream. That he had been a dream.
But then she pressed her thumb to the center, thought of purple-blue hair and eyes like twilight oceans, whispered his name like a prayer—
"Rafayel."
The beacon flared, and light bloomed in her chambers like a sunrise contained in coral, and then he was there, materializing from radiance into reality, and Nana's heart did something complicated in her chest that felt like relief and joy and coming home all at once.
"You came,"
she breathed, and her smile was so bright it could have lit the entire palace.
"Always,"
Rafayel replied, and something in his voice made the word sound like a vow.
Nana didn't think. Didn't consider propriety or royal dignity or the fact that they'd only known each other for days.
She just moved, closing the distance between them in three quick steps, throwing her arms around his neck with unguarded enthusiasm.
"I missed you,"
she said against his shoulder, and felt him go still for just a heartbeat before his arms came around her, holding her close.
"It's only been four days,"
he murmured, but there was warmth in his voice. Amusement. Something deeper that she couldn't quite name but felt in the way his hands pressed against her back, like he was memorizing the shape of her.
"Four very boring days," Nana corrected, pulling back just enough to look up at him.
"I tried to embroider. I ruined three silk handkerchiefs. I attempted poetry. My tutor said it was 'enthusiastic but lacking in technical merit,' which I think was her polite way of saying it was terrible."
Rafayel's lips quirked in that almost-smile she was learning to watch for.
"Tragic."
"Devastating," she agreed solemnly. Then, with renewed excitement, "But you're here now! And the palace is distracted! And I thought—if you're not too busy—we could go to the market? There's so much food I want to try, and last time we were rushing, and I just thought—"
"Yes," Rafayel said, cutting off her rambling with gentle amusement. "Whatever you want."
Whatever you want, the words echoed in Nana's mind with strange significance, like they meant more than they seemed to. Like he was promising something bigger than an evening at the market.
But before she could examine that thought too closely, Rafayel was already moving, already lifting her effortlessly into his arms, already carrying them both toward the window with that impossible grace she'd dreamed about for four long days.
"Hold on," he murmured against her ear, and then the world became wind and speed and freedom.
They landed in the same narrow street where they'd parted last time, the festival market sprawling before them like a treasure trove of experiences Nana had been denied her entire life.
But tonight felt different. Less desperate. Less like stealing something she wasn't supposed to have and more like... like this was where she belonged. Here, with him, surrounded by the chaos and color and beautiful normalcy of people just living their lives.
Rafayel set her down gently, his hands lingering at her waist for just a moment longer than necessary.
When Nana looked up at him, she found him already watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read. Soft. Almost tender. Like she was something precious he was afraid might break.
"Ready?" he asked.
"More than ready," Nana confirmed, and reached for his hand without thinking.
The contact sent warmth racing up her arm, settling somewhere in her chest where it glowed like captured starlight.
Rafayel's fingers twitched slightly—surprise, maybe—but then they closed around hers, large and warm and steady, and suddenly Nana felt like she could do anything.
Like she could fly.
They moved through the market together, hand in hand, and if anyone thought it strange that a princess was walking unchaperoned with a beautiful stranger, no one commented.
Maybe the crowd was too thick. Maybe they were too focused on their own concerns. Or maybe—and this was Nana's favorite possibility—maybe magic was real, and Rafayel was somehow making them invisible to prying eyes.
Wouldn't that be wonderful, she thought. To just disappear into the crowd. To be normal, just for one night.
The food stalls called to them like sirens.
Nana wanted to try everything—skewers of grilled meat glazed with spicy-sweet sauce, delicate dumplings that burst with soup when you bit them, candied ginger that made her eyes water and her tongue burn in the best way. Sugar-coated lotus seeds. Fried dough twisted into elaborate shapes and dusted with sesame. Sweet rice balls floating in ginger syrup.
She ate until she thought she might burst, and every new flavor felt like a small rebellion against the careful, controlled meals she endured in the palace.
But what made it truly special wasn't the food itself.
It was the way Rafayel watched her enjoy it.
The way he smiled—really smiled, not that careful almost-expression but something genuine and warm—when she made happy sounds at particularly delicious bites. The way he seemed to catalog her preferences, steering her toward stalls he thought she'd like.
The way he bought her things without letting her pay, like giving her these small joys was somehow his privilege rather than his burden.
"Try this," Nana said at one stall, holding up a piece of honeyed fruit to his lips. She didn't think about how intimate the gesture was until it was already happening, until she was feeding him from her own hand, until his mouth closed around the fruit and her fingers both, the contact sending electricity racing through her entire body.
Rafayel's eyes darkened slightly, something flickering in their depths that made Nana's breath catch. But he just chewed slowly, thoughtfully, never breaking eye contact.
"Good?" she asked, her voice coming out breathier than intended.
"Perfect," he replied, and she had the strange sense they weren't talking about the fruit anymore.
She fed him again—a dumpling this time, laughing when he had to eat it carefully to avoid the scalding soup inside. Then a piece of candied ginger that made him grimace slightly at the heat, which made her laugh harder.
"You're enjoying this," he observed.
"Immensely," Nana confirmed, already selecting another morsel. "Your turn to try this one."
It should have been nothing. Just sharing food. Just a simple, domestic gesture between friends.
But Rafayel's heart was doing complicated things in his chest, fluttering in ways it hadn't in a century. Her hands—those small, warm hands that had saved him once—offering him food with such casual intimacy.
Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Like they'd done this a thousand times before.
Like she was his wife, and this was their life, and everything else was just a bad dream they'd wake up from.
I'm doomed, he thought with something close to euphoria.
I'm going to damn my entire kingdom for this girl, and I don't even care.
The realization should have terrified him.
Instead, it felt like relief.
.
.
.
.
.
🐚🐚🐚
To be continued __