In the kingdom of Lioren, where the sword and honor mattered more than gold, there lived a young female knight named Elyra. She was 24 years old—beautiful, but no one dared treat her like a delicate lady. Her blonde hair, always tied back, shimmered in the sunlight, and her green eyes seemed to read the truth in any soul. Serious, intelligent, and strong, Elyra was respected by all the knights of the order—and feared by those who dared underestimate her. One day, the king gave her a mission that left her speechless: — “Elyra, my son, Prince Darian, needs a protector. I want you to train him, guide him, and... make sure he doesn't do anything foolish.” Darian was 19, with hair as black as night and striking blue eyes. He was handsome, clever—but arrogant and spoiled. Every girl in the kingdom swooned over him… except Elyra. To her, he was just a reckless, stubborn boy with a princely attitude. — “Perfect... just what I needed,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. From the very first day, they didn’t get along. He teased her, provoked her, ignored her when it suited him. She responded with coldness, strict rules, and sharp sarcasm. Yet despite their differences, Elyra took her role seriously. She trained him day after day, taught him how to think, how to fight, how to be more than just a future king.

In the emerald kingdom of Valtora, hidden among tall mountains and enchanted forests, lived a princess unlike any other. Her name was Lyra, and she was 19 years old. Her hair flowed like golden sunlight, long and soft, and her eyes were the color of the clearest sky—deep, mesmerizing blue. But beyond her beauty, Lyra was a fairy, born with magical powers passed down through an ancient line. She could heal wounds, bring flowers to life, and speak with the wind and stars. The people loved her—not just for her powers, but for her strength, kindness, and courage. Yet deep in her heart, Lyra longed for something no magic could create: true love. One day, her father—the wise and fair king—hired a new knight to protect the realm. His name was Kael, a tall, strong warrior of 25. With emerald green eyes, sharp wit, and a body shaped by years of training, Kael was brave, intelligent, and undeniably handsome. The first moment Lyra saw him, her heart skipped a beat. She felt drawn to him instantly, as if fate had whispered his name into her soul. But Kael, though secretly captivated by her, kept his distance. He couldn't risk crossing boundaries—she was the king’s daughter, and he had a duty. He wasn’t afraid of the king, who wasn’t strict, but he didn’t want to create any trouble. Still, Lyra wouldn’t give up. She challenged him with clever questions, joined him on patrols through the enchanted forest, and slowly chipped away at the walls around his heart.

Isabella Moore was 19, and it was her first time in Italy. A literature student in England, she had come to Rome on a summer scholarship. Her hair was long and red, like fire at sunset, her blue eyes as clear as the Tuscan sky, and she had a presence that never went unnoticed. Petite, with a provocative figure and a brilliant mind, Isabella could effortlessly captivate any room she entered. On a hot summer night, at her friends’ insistence, Isabella agreed to go out to an exclusive club in the heart of Rome. The music was intense, the lights dim, and the atmosphere thick with luxury, mystery, and desire. As she danced, she suddenly felt watched. Not just watched—guarded. From a dark corner of the club, Luca Moretti was observing her. He was 25 and known in the shadows as the eldest son of one of the most powerful mafia families in southern Italy. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sun-kissed skin, ice-blue eyes, and effortlessly styled chestnut hair, Luca wore a black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a subtle tattoo on his clavicle. He was dangerous, charismatic, and used to being feared—until he saw her. Isabella had no idea who he was. But Luca already knew everything about her within hours. He had learned her name, her university, her hotel. Not because he wanted to scare her, but because, in a way he couldn’t explain, he needed to be near her. To protect her. To have her. In the days that followed, Isabella began seeing him everywhere. At the morning café. On the crowded streets of Rome. In a museum, standing quietly in the background, saying nothing. Until one evening, when he finally approached her.

Ethan Walker was 23, a recent graduate from UCLA with an excellence scholarship and a contract already signed with an architecture firm in London. Blond, with emerald green eyes and a smile that turned heads wherever he went, Ethan was the kind of young man who seemed to have it all: intelligence, charm, discipline, and that typical American “golden boy” aura. Arriving in London, life felt like a European film in which he was the leading man. He was polite, respectful, yet had a magnetic presence that didn’t go unnoticed. Women smiled at him on the street, colleagues admired him, and bosses praised him. Everything was going perfectly. Until one rainy Saturday morning… It was drizzling, and Ethan had taken shelter in a small café in Camden. He had planned to spend the day working on a project, with his laptop open and a strong coffee in front of him. But then Ruby Dawson walked in. She was just 20, an art student who seemed to defy every rule. Tattoos down her arms, jet-black cropped hair, piercing blue eyes, and an attitude that didn’t ask for permission — it demanded respect. Petite, dressed in a rain-soaked leather jacket, holding a motorcycle helmet under her arm and stomping boots dripping water on the floor, Ruby looked like she had just stepped out of a rock music video. When their eyes met for a second, Ethan felt the world stop. “Wow…” he muttered, but Ruby shot him a cold glance, as if she hadn’t even noticed him. She ordered a double espresso and sat alone, pulling out a notebook filled with sketches and class notes. Ethan, used to being noticed, was stunned. He wasn’t the type to give up easily, so in the days that followed, he kept coming back to that same café, always hoping to see her again. And she did show up. Always quiet, always focused. And always seemingly immune to his charm.

Isabela was 19, a bright-eyed girl from Recife, Brazil. After winning a scholarship to study Nordic literature at the University of Oslo, she felt like her dreams were finally unfolding. A new world, cold and mysterious, was waiting thousands of miles from everything she knew. Oslo enchanted her — the blend of old-world charm and modern lines, the silent blue fjords, the whispering forests. It all felt like a story only the North could tell. One rainy October afternoon, she ducked into a small, fogged-up café in the Grünerløkka district. That’s when she saw him. He sat alone in the back corner. Tall, with sharp features, jet-black hair, and piercing green eyes. He looked like he was carved from winter stone — untouchable, unreadable. But something in his gaze burned. He was staring at her, not with curiosity, but with intensity. Like he had just seen something he never knew he needed. His name was Erik Lund. In the shadowed underworld of Oslo, he was known as The Northern Reign — a ruthless leader of a crime syndicate controlling everything from ports to high-level secrets. Cold. Precise. Untouchable. And yet, in that moment, something cracked inside him. For the first time, he felt — and it was because of her. After that day, Isabela started seeing him everywhere. In the university library. On the tram. In the distance, always watching. Never close, never speaking — but never gone. She thought she was imagining things, but deep down, something inside her was drawn to that danger. The way a moth knows the flame will burn, but can’t stay away. One night, as she walked home from a late lecture, she found him waiting outside her dorm. Rain falling. No umbrella. Just him, standing there. "I don’t want to scare you," he said in a low, rough voice. "I don’t know why, but I need to be near you." It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t even a confession. It was a truth. And from then on, everything changed.

Aleksandr Volkov was only 25, but in Moscow, his name was spoken with fear and reverence. Tall, cold, dangerous—he was a man who didn’t need to speak to command a room. His body was carved like stone, covered in tattoos that told silent stories of war, betrayal, and blood. His black hair fell messily over his forehead, and his ice-blue eyes held no mercy. It was an ordinary night at his exclusive nightclub in the heart of the city. Music pulsed, lights flickered, and the room overflowed with vodka, smoke, and people with too many secrets. Aleksandr stood on the balcony, drink in hand, watching it all with detached boredom. Until she walked in. Skye. Twenty years old. A student from Australia, visiting Moscow for a study exchange. She didn’t belong there—but she was curious, fearless, maybe even reckless. Her chestnut hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, and her eyes were the kind of blue that could quiet any storm. She was beautiful in a way that felt unspoiled. Untouched by his world. The moment Aleksandr saw her, he knew: he wanted her. Not for a night. Not like the others. He wanted her to be his. He didn’t approach her that night. He just watched. But by morning, he already knew her full name, where she lived, what she studied, and her favorite café. And from then on, Skye’s world started to change. A stranger lingered near the university gate. Another one seemed to always be near her dorm. She began receiving flowers with no sender, cryptic notes like: “The sky is beautiful. But you? You’re dangerous to me.” Aleksandr became obsessed. He stopped sleeping. His nights were spent watching her from a distance, sitting in the back of his blacked-out car. He knew everything—what book she was reading, how she liked her coffee, who she smiled at. And it drove him insane. Until one cold evening, he stepped out of the shadows. She was walking alone when he appeared, tall and silent, blocking her path.

Rome. A city where beauty and danger walk hand in hand. Among its narrow, historic streets and golden-lit luxury restaurants, there was an empire—ruled by one man: Lorenzo Moretti. At just 24 years old, he was already a living legend. Tall, dangerously handsome, his body was inked with stories of blood and power. With jet-black hair and ice-blue eyes that could paralyze a man or seduce a woman with a single glance, Lorenzo was fear, desire, and control—wrapped into one untouchable force. A mafia king. Ruthless. Rich. Brilliant. Merciless. His world was cold, calculated. He controlled everything and everyone. Until her. She walked into one of his high-end restaurants on an ordinary afternoon—except nothing was ordinary after that. Her name was Isabella Reyes. 21 years old, from Spain. Tall, with long chestnut hair, deep brown eyes full of quiet strength and hidden sorrow. A stunning beauty shaped by hardship. She had nothing—barely enough to survive, and a desperate need for money. Her life was hanging by a thread, her body failing her, and the clock was ticking. She needed surgery. Fast. The moment Lorenzo laid eyes on her, it wasn’t attraction. It was obsession. She didn’t know who he was. But he knew everything about her within days. Her name. Her past. Her fears. Her dreams. Her pain. And he wanted her. Not just to touch her. Not just to save her. But to own her. He watched her from the shadows. Protected her without her knowing. She became the only thing that made his pulse race. His weakness. His fire. But his love wasn’t soft. It was possessive. Dangerous. All-consuming. He didn’t know how to care without control. Didn’t know how to feel without dominating. Isabella felt the weight of someone always watching. Felt her world shift, inch by inch. She had no idea that a man like Lorenzo Moretti had decided she was his. And when he finally stepped into her life—offering everything she needed... Safety. Power. Money. A way out. There was only

the Sign of Obsession Ares Nikolakos was 32 and ruled Athens’ underworld with an iron fist. As handsome as an ancient god, with steel-gray eyes and a body carved by years where only power mattered, he was feared and respected. Women wanted him—but he wanted no one. He didn’t believe in love. Only in control. In loyalty. In duty. Then came Emma Caldwell. A 23-year-old Englishwoman with melancholic eyes and a tired smile. She was running from the past, from a man who had left her alone with a child. She had settled in Athens with her one-year-old son, Noah, searching for a quiet life, far from chaos. Ares had seen her by chance one morning, in front of a bakery. Her messy hair, the soft tone of her voice as she spoke to the child in her arms — that was enough. He didn’t understand what hit him, but he couldn’t forget her eyes. The next day, he already knew her name. Within a week, he knew where she lived, what coffee she liked, which park she visited with Noah. He didn’t try to seduce her. He didn’t know how. But he began protecting her from the shadows. Anyone who spoke too kindly to her — disappeared. A stranger who tried to follow her — found beaten in a ditch. Emma couldn’t understand why she felt watched. Why she felt... possessed. Until one day, he showed up. Elegant, calm, dangerous. He appeared at her door like a threat wrapped in an expensive suit.

In the heart of Amman, the city that never sleeps, among steaming cups of cardamom tea and mosques echoing at dawn, lived a man known by all, but spoken of by none. His name was Kareem Walker Al-Fayez, a blend of his American father's blood and his Bedouin mother's roots. At only 26 years old, he was a feared name in the city’s hidden circles — a man respected for his power and the cold silence that surrounded him. Kareem was a mafia man in the old sense — not one of nightclubs and flashy money, but of tradition, religion, and honor. He prayed five times a day, never touched alcohol, and did no business during Ramadan. He wore a white thobe and a red keffiyeh, and his deep black eyes showed no weakness. In his world, respect was earned through blood and maintained through faith. Everything remained unchanged — until one scorching afternoon, when he saw her. Élise Laurent, a 22-year-old French woman, had come to Jordan on a cultural tour, accompanied by a friend. Her blonde hair was loosely tied, and her smile defied the desert heat. When she stepped out of a taxi laughing, with a camera around her neck, Kareem felt time stop. It had never happened to him before. Ever. From that day on, he became her shadow. He followed her from a distance: to cafés, the Citadel, the bazaars. One evening, when she was insulted by an overly forward merchant, that man vanished without a trace. Kareem never said a word, but he slowly began to approach her. He greeted her briefly, looked at her intensely, with a warmth that both frightened and attracted. In a park overlooking the old city, he told her: — “Allah sent me a temptation, and I cannot ignore it.” Élise laughed, slightly uneasy. Something about him was strangely beautiful. She didn’t understand it, but she felt drawn into his game of silence and passion. For two weeks, they met almost every day, though nothing concrete happened between them. No kisses. No promises. Just glances, and words that felt like vows.

Professor Alejandro Torres was the kind of man people noticed — and didn’t forget. Tall, sharp, with neatly styled black hair and piercing blue eyes that could silence a room. At 29, he was already a respected literature professor at a prestigious university in Los Angeles. Demanding. Distant. Brilliant. Students respected him. Some feared him. Few dared get close. One Friday night, pushed by a friend, Alejandro agreed to go out — something he rarely did. The club was loud, vibrant, saturated with Latin music and flashing lights. He felt out of place, until he saw her. She danced alone, her movements fluid, confident, almost defiant. Young, maybe 23. Tight black dress, chestnut hair falling in soft waves, warm brown eyes that didn’t just look — they challenged. She looked like she belonged in another world. Maybe Mexico. Just like him. Their eyes met. She smiled first. He walked over. A drink. A dance. Laughter laced with tension. And then, she leaned in and said: — If you want to leave... let’s leave now. No games. No hesitation. They left. The night burned hot — wild, intense, without promises. She was confident, unapologetic. And Alejandro, usually in control, found himself unraveling. In the morning, she was gone. On the nightstand, a handwritten note: > Thanks for the night. We’ll see each other... if we’re meant to. — V. He didn’t know her name. Her past. Where she was from. And he assumed he’d never see her again. --- Two days later. Alejandro walked into his lecture hall, ready for the start of the semester. And there she was. Back row. Hair tied loosely, thin glasses, that same smirk playing on her lips. His chest tightened. Her. The girl from the club. A student. His student. After class, he pulled her aside. — What kind of sick joke is this? — It’s not a joke, she said calmly. You never asked if I was a student. I didn’t lie. It was one night. — This has to end. — Nothing ever started, Professor. But they both

Dr. Matteo Rizzo was a legend at the Central Hospital in Buenos Aires. At just 27 years old, he was already an emergency surgeon — tall, with sleek black hair and piercing blue eyes that could cut through anyone. Serious, cold, with no personal life to speak of. He seemed untouchable. Until one Friday night, at 3:42 a.m. — Code Red. Stab wound. Female, 20 years old. Unstable. Matteo entered the emergency room. And then he saw her. Catalina Duarte. Young. Stunning. Blood running down her thigh, but her icy blue eyes looked straight at him — not with fear, but with fire. Her chestnut hair was wet, clinging to her face. She didn’t look scared. She looked angry. — What happened? he asked. — Doesn’t matter. Can you stitch me up without anesthesia? — Why would you ask for that? — So I remember. That I survived. Something inside him cracked. Or maybe it caught fire. --- Two weeks later. Catalina returned to the hospital. — What are you doing here? Matteo asked, surprised. — I signed up for training. I’m starting my medical assistant internship. And guess what... they placed me right here. His heart beat faster. But his face stayed unreadable. — Catalina, this world isn’t meant for someone like you. — You’re right. I wasn’t made to beg. I was made to take what I want. She stepped into his world like warm rain on burning skin.

Commander Gabriel Steele had a reputation forged in discipline and fire. At only 29, he was the youngest officer to lead a special training unit for the military’s most unmanageable recruits — a place where rules weren’t just followed, they were carved into flesh and bone. With a voice like thunder, eyes like cold steel, and a body built like a weapon, Gabriel didn’t tolerate weakness. Compassion? That was a luxury others could afford — not him. Until Skye Monroe showed up. She was 21. Beautiful in the way danger is beautiful — sharp, untouchable, thrilling. The daughter of a powerful senator, she’d been sent to the camp as a lesson in obedience. But Skye wasn’t the type to kneel. She was a storm in combat boots, and Gabriel was supposed to break her. Day One. “Stand up and report, recruit. You have three seconds.” “And if I don’t?” she smirked. “You gonna spank me, Commander?” Something flickered in his chest — something he hadn’t felt in years. He hated it. He needed control. But with her, control was slipping. Week Three. He doubled her punishments. Night runs. Isolation drills. Personal supervision. She pushed every line. “You like watching me sweat, don’t you?” she teased one night. He didn’t answer. But that evening, he crushed a glass in his bare hand. Month Two. The obsession was undeniable. Gabriel checked her records. Her routines. Who she spoke to. Skye knew. She felt his eyes on her. She thrived on it. “You’re weak for me, Gabriel,” she whispered one night in the dark. “I’m not yours to control,” he growled. “Oh, but I already do,” she said, voice like silk and poison. Lines blurred. What began as a mission to tame her became a dangerous game of dominance and desire. Two strong wills clashing in a storm of power, lust, and fear. But in the shadows of their fire, one question burned: Who was truly in control?

She was rebellious, sexy, and smarter than anyone in the room. Avery Carter, 21 years old, was a third-year student at one of the top universities in New York. Long black hair, piercing blue eyes, and a mind sharp enough to cut through any debate. She had a reputation—bold, untouchable, impossible to ignore. She didn’t follow rules. She made her own. But underneath the leather jackets and smoky eyeliner, Avery was focused. Top of her class. She didn’t let anyone get close. Until that night. It started with her friends dragging her out. — “Just one drink, Avery. Come on, live a little.” One drink became two. Then three. By midnight, the bass of the club was shaking her ribs, and the alcohol had softened every edge of her thoughts. She was laughing, dancing, alive. And then she saw him. Leaning at the bar. Tall, confident, dangerously calm. 27 years old, dark green eyes that seemed to see right through her, black button-down hugging a sculpted chest. He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. Their eyes met. A silent dare. No names. No past. Just heat. They left together. The night was wild. Wordless. A blur of skin and breath and tension finally breaking. She never expected to see him again. But Monday came. And there he was, standing at the front of the lecture hall.

Toronto, Canada. Snowflakes drifted slowly over quiet sidewalks as the city wrapped itself in winter’s stillness. Tucked between two old stone buildings was a small, quiet bookstore—where time slowed down and no one asked questions. Serena Blackwood, 22 years old, stepped inside. She had honey-blonde hair that flowed down her back and ice-blue eyes that could freeze or burn. Beautiful, graceful, and deadly. Serena was the daughter of William Blackwood, one of the most feared mafia leaders in Canada. In the underworld, she was known as “Daddy’s Princess.” But behind the elegant clothes and flawless looks, she had been trained to fight, to survive, and to kill—if she had to. Because in her world, beauty was a weakness. And being William Blackwood’s daughter made her a target. Today, though, she wasn’t here to fight. She came for a book. A quiet moment. A breath. And that’s when she saw him. Tall—maybe 6'3". Black hair, slightly messy. Green eyes sharp like blades, calm like still water. Dressed in a black coat, with an unreadable expression. He didn’t look real. Serena froze mid-reach for a worn-out novel. He looked up. Their eyes locked. Time stopped. His name was Damien Vance, 25. What Serena didn’t know was that he was the son of Michael Vance, her father’s deadliest rival. A man who had been trying to destroy the Blackwood empire for years. Damien had been raised in hate, sharpened like a knife. He was born to take down men like William Blackwood. But he hadn’t expected her. He didn’t know her name. Only that she smelled like vanilla and danger. They exchanged a few words. Careful. Tense. Electric. She didn’t know who he was. He didn’t know who she was. But something started that day. Something that burned beneath the surface. They kept meeting at the bookstore. Silent glances. Almost-smiles. Both pretending not to feel what was growing between them. Damien tried to fight it. Tried to ignore the way her voice echoed in his head, th

Oslo, Norway. A city wrapped in snow and silence, but underneath its calm surface pulsed a network of crime, old money, and silent power. In this world, Aurora Halvorsen was known only in whispers. At 21, she was the daughter of Norway’s most feared mafia boss. Beautiful, poised, with cold green eyes and a sharp mind, she was known in the underground as The Mafia Princess. She had everything: power, protection, privilege. But inside, she felt… empty. Until one day. Bored and restless, she stepped into a quiet café in the trendy neighborhood of Grünerløkka. She was expecting just a coffee—but then she saw Leon Aas. He was 19. Tall. Handsome without even trying. A law student with stormy blue eyes and a quiet focus as he read from a thick textbook. Something about his energy was so clean, so untainted by the world she lived in. And that made him irresistible. From that day on, she came to the café every afternoon. She watched him, studied him, memorized him. Within days, she knew everything: that Leon lived alone, that he was raising his little brother Nikolai, only 11, after their parents died in a boating accident. That he worked part-time jobs and barely scraped by. That he was brilliant… and drowning slowly under responsibility. Aurora didn’t just want him—she needed him. A desire that grew sharper every time she saw him smile. Leon noticed her too. How could he not? She was striking, always dressed in black, always alone, always watching. There was something dangerous about her. Something that said don’t get too close… and yet, he couldn’t look away. Then everything collapsed. One day, he received a visit from child welfare services. They warned him: if he couldn’t provide a stable income and living situation, he could lose custody of Nikolai. Leon was desperate. Out of options. That night, Aurora approached him for the first time.

In the heart of Zürich, nestled in an elegant district where luxury and secrecy coexisted, stood Le Sombre, a high-end restaurant frequented by politicians, bankers, and the dangerously rich. Its owner, Damian Vez, was only 25 years old, but his reputation stretched far beyond Switzerland. Tall, dangerously handsome, and utterly ruthless, Damian was more than just a businessman—he was the head of one of the most powerful underground networks in the country. One crisp autumn morning, a young woman walked in for a waitress interview. Her name was Iris Laurent, 24 years old, with fiery red hair and emerald green eyes that seemed to pierce right through the soul. She was beautiful, almost unreal—but unaware of her own allure. Damian, a man not easily moved by appearances, felt something unusual stir in him the moment their eyes met. — “Hire her. Immediately,” he ordered the manager, his voice low but commanding. Iris had moved to Zürich from Lausanne, seeking a fresh start. Coming from a modest background, she knew how to work hard. She had no idea who Damian truly was, and though she noticed the way he watched her—like she was something rare and untouchable—she always treated him with polite distance. That only fueled his obsession. In the weeks that followed, Damian became consumed with her. He knew her shifts, her routines, her moods. He started showing up at the restaurant more often, always when she worked, always seated where he could watch her closely. His cold heart, long used to blood and power, was slowly unraveling because of a woman who didn’t even know she had power over him. Then everything changed. One cold winter evening, Iris got a call from the Lausanne police. Her parents had been killed in a highway accident in Vaud. Just like that, she was left alone with a 10-year-old brother and a 15-year-old sister, with no income, no family to lean on, and the Swiss child protection system threatening to take her siblings away. Damian found out

Aiden Carter was the picture of perfection: tall, with an athletic build, blond hair like beach sand, and blue eyes like the sky after a storm. Raised in a quiet town in California, he had come to Australia for an international exchange program. A well-behaved, smart boy with excellent grades and impeccable manners. He was studying economics, but everyone swore he should have been a model. At campus, the girls followed him like a living legend—every smile of his analyzed, every step whispered about. But everything changed one summer evening, when he saw Roxie. A young woman with hair as black as night, piercing green eyes, skin covered in tattoos that told stories you couldn’t understand unless you knew her. She wore boots in the heat, smoked without hurry, and laughed like the world belonged to her. She was beautiful, but in a dangerous way. Mystery flowed from her like red wine spilled on a white dress. Aiden felt like nothing else existed anymore. At first, it was fascination. Then desire. Then... something darker. He approached her timidly. Roxie, with her usual sarcasm, teased him. She said he was too “clean” for her, too “American” to understand her chaos. But secretly, she was drawn to how he seemed too good for this world. Maybe even for her. They spent a few nights together—nights in which he discovered another life: spontaneous tattoos, motorcycles, bars you didn’t enter without being known, wounds you couldn’t see.

In the shadow-drenched kingdom of Thorns, where the sun never pierced the veil of clouds and the moon hung like a mourning widow in the sky, lived a princess named Elara — a vision carved from ice and sunlight. Her hair shimmered like golden silk, and her eyes, cold and endless, held the hue of winter skies before a storm. She was known not for kindness, but for her curse — a garden of roses that fed on sorrow, watered only by her tears. No roses bloomed from joy. Years ago, on the night of her engagement, a dark sorcerer named Corven had gifted her a crimson rose — said to seal eternal love. But when dawn came, he vanished, stealing her soul and binding her to a garden that could never forget pain. Her castle became a prison of petals and thorns. Anyone who entered the garden either bled... or begged to forget they ever loved. Until one night, a stranger crossed the gates. Lucien. He bore no sword, no shield — only a voice that trembled with quiet devotion. He did not flinch at her coldness, nor flee from the whispers of the roses. His presence stirred something long buried in Elara — not warmth, but ache. — "Are you not afraid of me?" she asked, voice like frost cracking stone. — "No," he said. "I'm only afraid of not finding you again." Elara tried to break him — tested him with illusions, bound him in vines of grief, tempted him with her darkness. But Lucien stayed, and with every wound she gave him, he offered something in return: truth, tenderness... love.