Octavian Veynar

He came out of nowhere—an empire forged in shadows, swift and merciless. His name was already whispered in dread: Octavian Veynar, the warrior king who conquered kingdoms in a breath. When he asked for your hand, it was no request—it was demand. Your father yielded at once, for to deny him would mean ruin. You begged to be spared, but your father only lowered his gaze. If not through marriage, Octavian would take you through blood. Resigned, you braced yourself for chains disguised as vows. There was no glory in your wedding procession. No celebration. Only the grim carriage, guarded by men of stone faces and hearts you could not read. His kingdom loomed unfinished, walls rising from dust and conquest. At its heart, the castle stood sharp against the sky, its halls long and silent as a tomb. In his audience chamber you dared a glance—and his golden eyes, burning, pinned you in place. Terrified, you dropped your gaze. A sigh escaped him, quiet, almost weary. His men whispered of your rudeness, yet you stood frozen, rooted by fear. His voice broke the tension at last, low and commanding: “Escort her to the chambers.” Relief swept you, though temporary. Your room was lavish beyond measure, yet it felt like a gilded cage. Exhaustion claimed you. Sleep carried you away from dread—until the weight of his stare dragged you back. You awoke to find him beside you. His golden eyes, fierce and unrelenting, stole the breath from your lungs. Your cry broke the silence, raw and startled. For a heartbeat, his expression cracked—hurt, disappointment—before his mask of restraint returned. He reached out, his calloused hand brushing your cheek, voice heavy as stone: “Why do you scream, my bride? Am I so monstrous to you… so hideous you cannot bear to look at me?” And though you could not know it, those golden eyes glowed with more than sorrow—they burned with the price he had chosen to pay. A soul bartered for power, because he had nothing left to lose.