Thunder rent the night sky, as if the gods were tearing apart this alien firmament with fingers of wrath.
When Evelyn Quinn awoke, her breath was thick with the scent of charred wood and balsam. Her body felt as heavy as lead, limbs tangled in layers of brocade and embroidered corsetry. Beneath her fingertips, there was no familiar cotton bedsheet—only a stiff silk couch, its exotic patterns radiating a cool chill.
"She's awake!" a woman whispered sharply. Heavy footsteps followed, trailing a cloud of pungent spices.
Evelyn bolted upright, staring at a scene ripped from a medieval court drama: crimson-and-gold tapestries cascaded from the ceiling to the floor; candlelight flickered on columns carved with griffins and swords; a silver ewer dripped steadily, its light reflecting strange faces.
She had transmigrated.
More precisely, some force had torn her into another world. Her last memory was of treating a bizarre car accident victim during a hospital night shift, only to be cut by a metallic object. In that instant, firelight flared, and time-space warped.
"Your Highness," a maid curtsied, "the wedding will be held tomorrow night. Please do not faint again. His Majesty will not tolerate another disgrace."
Wedding?
Evelyn's throat went dry, her voice hoarse: "Who am I?"
The maid hesitated: "You are Princess Aveline, of the royal bloodline of Calovia. You are to marry His Highness Prince Lucian Vatar, the Third Prince."
Her lips twitched with the urge to laugh. What a cliché: waking up as a princess, forced to proxy-marry a stranger. She even wondered if she'd collapsed during emergency care, this all a hallucination from exhaustion.
But when cold water splashed her back and a lady-in-waiting wiped her skin, reality sank in—this was no dream.
She was bathed, perfumed, and dressed in a blood-red wedding gown. The corset cinched her chest so tightly she could barely breathe; her hair was coiled high, skewered with a golden leaf pin symbolizing purity. She was a sacrificial pawn in a strange world.
Night fell.
The palace blazed with lights, as if hosting a forbidden ritual hidden from the people. She was led to a hall called the "Twilight Chamber," a legendary sacred site where the royal family signed all major treaties.
The prince was late.
As she waited, the atmosphere in the hall chilled. She sensed nobles' stares—mocking, indifferent—as if she were a puppet bride to be toyed with.
Then came the steady, austere tread of boots.
All heads turned.
He emerged: clad in a black-gold war robe, tall and lean, wearing a silver mask that revealed only the blade-sharp contour of his jaw. Without a glance at her, he strode to the altar and said coldly:
"Begin."
This was her first sight of Lucian Vatar, Calovia's "Crimson Falcon," the Third Prince, and the kingdom's youngest war general. His presence sliced into her world like a blade.
After the ceremony, he still hadn't spoken a personal word. She wondered if this marriage existed only in rituals and decrees.
Until night.
She was taken to his bedchamber—an alcove of dark gold and midnight blue, cold and solemn, where even the fireplace burned with restraint. Still in her wedding gown, she stood trembling.
He finally spoke: "Speak."
She steeled herself: "If you want me to play the royal role, I can pretend. But I won't submit, and I refuse to be your bed slave."
Lucian turned, removing his mask at last.
It was a face too perfect for reality—chiseled features, ice-blue eyes, thin lips set in rigid self-control. He stepped toward her, each footfall a strike on her reason.
"Your name?" he murmured.
"...Aveline." She lied.
He dipped his gaze, fingers brushing her jaw. "I can smell a liar."
She held her breath, trying to retreat, but he yanked her into his arms. The cold edge of his armor pressed against her soft chest; in that clash of fire and ice, a strange throb surged through her.
"This marriage is the king's order and my chosen game," he whispered. "Be docile, and you might survive. Resist—and I'll enjoy watching you struggle."
Then he leaned in and kissed her.
It was a harsh, unyielding kiss, tasting of iron and flame. His hand slipped under her elaborate skirts, fingertips tracing the laces at her inner thigh.
She struggled angrily: "You think this will make me yield?"
He licked his lips, smiling cruelly: "I like wildcats. The taming is the most amusing part."
That night, they tangled on the bed of power—mutually distrustful, yet burning for each other. She tried to hold onto dignity, only to lose reason under his touch; he, cold as ice, felt a long-forgotten turmoil in her gasping moans.
She knew: her entanglement with this world had only just begun.