The Radiant Prison

Lonely Together

Authors note: smut will be in the chapter after this one. So if you don't like smut don't read the next chapter!

The door groaned on its hinges, a weary complaint in the otherwise hushed chamber. Silvan's shadow fell across the floor like spilled ink, creeping towards where Elara perched on the bed's edge. A thin veil of moonlight slipped through the window, casting her in a ghostly silhouette against the stormy tableau outside. Though his nightly visits had been as punctual as the stars, his absence stretched long and hollow over the past week. Now, he returned, a specter cloaked in the blood of an unknown ordeal.

Elara's pulse quickened, yet her gaze remained fixed on the twilight's fading embrace, the colors bleeding out over the horizon. The tempest outside mirrored the turmoil within her—a symphony of wind and rain that wrestled with the silent chaos in her heart. She did not turn to acknowledge him.

"Get out," she demanded, each word sliced from her tongue with cold precision. Her voice was the hiss of steel unsheathed, a sharp note cutting through the room's eerie stillness.

Silvan's stillness became an entity of its own, a silent specter that hovered between the tension-laden air. He pivoted gracefully on heel, his movements betraying none of the storm that raged beyond the walls or in their souls—a stark contrast to the chaos that clung to his blood-soaked form. With deliberate care, he lowered himself to the bed's far side, maintaining a chasm of unsaid words and unyielded emotions. His back straight as if bracing against the weight of an invisible crown, he sat there, a sculpture carved from ice and shadows, careful not to graze her with even the whisper of his touch.

The silence stretched into an abyss, each second a lingering torment to Elara's frayed senses. The room seemed to close in, the walls whispering secrets in the flickering candlelight, as if mocking the pretense of their quietude. It was too much, a cruel mimicry of peace where none could exist. Her laughter—sharp, bitter, and unforgiving—shattered the stillness, echoing off the stone like a curse spat at fate itself.

Silvan's frown creased the perfection of his cold, marble features as he turned his glacial gaze upon her. "What?" The word was a blade drawn in defense, his voice a low rumble that seemed to reverberate through the very stones beneath them.

Elara's gaze slid toward Silvan, slicing through the dimness that clung to the corners of the chamber. Her eyes gleamed with a cold light, embers in the twilight of the room. "After finger fucking me in front of my mate, you think sitting too close will offend me?" The words fell from her lips, sharp and jagged as shards of broken glass.

Silvan remained a statue of indifference, his face a mask of perpetual frost. His eyes, two chips of glacial ice, did not betray a flicker of emotion as he absorbed her venomous barb. "He's not your mate," he stated, the words cutting through the thick air between them—a declaration, an unspoken edict from the depths of his being.

The castle's oppressive silence seemed to lean in closer, eager to feast upon the raw truth spilled into the gloom.

She swiveled, her movements imbued with a sudden gravity, to face him fully. The air of Elysirion seemed to thicken around her, charged with an electric anticipation that made her skin tingle. Her eyes, wide and probing, sought the truth within the icy depths of Silvan's gaze. Her lips parted, daring to voice the question that clawed at her insides. "What do you mean?" Though her tone betrayed a veneer of calm, a tremor betrayed the quake within her heart.

Silvan sat before her. The crimson liquid that marred his appearance, thick and viscous, clung to him, shimmering with a malevolence born of the night. It was a stark contrast to the usual pristine blackness of his attire, a disruption to the order he so fiercely upheld.