A Crown And Obsession

There are tyrants, there are monsters, and then-there is Lilith D'Aragon.

She is no queen of mercy, no ruler of benevolence. She does not inspire devotion-she demands submission. The world does not love her, but it bows to her, and that is far more satisfying. Love is fleeting, fragile, pathetic. But power? Power is eternal.

Her beauty is a deception, a mask woven from silk and shadows. Beneath the delicate veneer of porcelain skin and lips stained the color of spilled blood lies something cruel, something merciless. Her laughter is sharp as a blade, her whispers more dangerous than war cries. She does not offer kindness; she offers domination.

To defy her is to welcome ruin. She builds empires with one hand and burns them with the other. Her throne is not made of gold and jewels but of spilled blood and shattered bones.

And yet, among the thousands who tremble before her, there is one man who does not.

Cassian Vale.

He does not fear her. He does not worship her. He does not kneel.

Instead, he hates her. With a fury so intense it burns hotter than any fire she has ever seen. His every glance is filled with loathing, his every word a rebellion against her rule. He would rather die than serve her.

So, she does not give him death. She gives him something worse.

She takes him.

Not as a servant. Not as a knight. But as hers.

His hatred is irrelevant. His will means nothing. He can glare, fight, and curse her name for eternity, but he will never escape her grasp.

Because Lilith D'Aragon does not lose. And Cassian Vale? He was hers the moment she decided so.

He can hate her all he wants.

As long as he never forgets who owns him.

She possesses him.

And Lilith D'Aragon never loses what belongs to her