The Duke's Reluctant Bride

Chapter 37: Threads of Royal Blood

Fear gripped Zandros like a vice—not the kind that drove men to run, but the kind that hollowed them out from within, slow and silent as rot.

His breaths came shallow, ragged. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he staggered back, no longer the cold, commanding figure of myth. His presence flickered—like a dying flame caught in a storm. Around him, the barren tundra held its silence, yet his vision pulsed with movement. Shadows curled at the edges of his sight.

He was alone... And yet he saw her.

Alysanne Valenhart.

Not a memory—no. Something crueler. She stood as if summoned, golden eyes ablaze, burning through the dark.

"A ghost..." he rasped.

He could almost hear her voice again—low, surgical, carved into the marrow of his bones.

"What do you take life for, exactly?"

His lips curled into a crooked grin, but the tremors remained in his limbs.

"We should have ended you back then, when we had the chance... We shouldn't have underestimated you," he whispered, his voice cracking. "A power like yours—we'd never seen anything like it..."

He swallowed hard.

"What do we take life for?"

Zandros stood still for a moment, as if the wind had gutted the air from his lungs. Then his yellow eyes narrowed, and something colder surged into his voice.

"What do we take life for?" he repeated, mockingly gentle—for a breath.

Then it shattered into venom.

"To remind the world what fear tastes like."

Darkness erupted from him like a second skin, coiling into the frozen air. The snow at his feet blackened, hissing as it melted beneath the weight of his power.

"I was forged to be more than what they feared, Alysanne. While you played as their savior, I learned to survive in this imperfect world. You call it cruelty... I call it order."

His lips twisted into a bitter, joyless smile.

Every word now dripped with centuries of pain and rage.

"Life is meant to be destroyed, and I've learned to wield it better than anyone."

He turned, his cloak snapping like a wound torn open by the wind.

"And when the darkness rises again, you'll see how I end your legacy, by my own hand."

He raised his voice, fury breaking through the frost.

"For centuries, I've slaughtered your descendants... and still, they rise."

"No more," he snarled, louder now, each word laced with venom. "Your dukedom will fall, replaced by the old ways—my ways."

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The golden beams of morning sun bathed Lucien's manor. It was another beautiful day in Wintermere. Though spring still thrived, the cold wind lingered, prompting the servants to rub their shoulders as they moved through the halls, bracing against the chill.

In the grand hallway, Quentin walked with measured strides. His coat was buttoned neatly, his tie was perfectly set, and his glasses gleamed under the colored light filtering through the stained-glass windows.

Just as he turned a corner near the Duke's office, a familiar figure hurried toward him. Instinctively, he stepped back, his brown eyes scanning the approaching form.