CHAPTER THIRTEEN: THE SCENT OF FATE
Seven years had passed.
The wind in Denyrus felt different now, crisper, older, laced with memories and the scent of change. And there she stood, in the wide courtyard beneath the silver-streaked sky, drenched in sweat, her brows furrowed, arms raised mid-concentration.
"Come on... Come on, damn it," Esterphania muttered through clenched teeth.
A new spell. One that her instructor claimed only five known hybrids had ever been able to master. Something that demanded power, precision... and patience. She had two out of three.
The air shimmered faintly. Then fizzled.
"Shit," she hissed and lowered her hands. "This is impossible."
A dry snarl came from behind her. "Whimp."
She froze.
Her body turned before her brain did, heart kicking against her ribs. Her eyes scanned the training yard until they landed on a tall, dark figure leaning against a stone pillar, arms crossed, eyes gleaming in the dusk light.
"Alexander?"
He smirked like he'd never left. "You sound like you wanted me dead."
Her jaw dropped in disbelief, then curved into a reluctant grin. "I can see you came back dumber."
He drew in a sharp breath, mock offended. "And you're as heartless as ever."
His gaze dropped for a second—just a flicker, but enough to make her scoff.
"Yet," he added, "you've grown curves."
"Disgusting old man."
She turned, her crimson-black training outfit sticking to her body, the exposed belly glinting with sweat, and the snug pants hugging every curve. She stormed off, and like a dog to a bone, he followed.
"Where are you going, Stephanie?"
She halted mid-step and turned around so fast her hair snapped behind her like a whip. "Stephanie?"
He grinned, shameless. "What? You like it, don't you? It'll be our thing."
A shadow dagger appeared instantly in her palm and zipped to his throat. "Call me that again, and I will murder you."
Alexander raised both hands. "Hey hey, relax. It's just an abbreviation. A nickname! You don't really want me dead."
Her eyes narrowed. "Don't test that theory."
He laughed nervously as she retracted the blade.
"Anyway," she said, brushing past him, "I'm going to prepare for my birthday party tomorrow."
He blinked. "You're turning eighteen?"
She smirked, not missing the way his gaze lingered again. "Yeah, perv. Eighteen."
"Oh… I know," he said, smirking like he knew more than he let on.
She paused at the door to her chambers, voice suddenly serious. "Have you seen Melody yet?"
Alexander stiffened. "Uhh…"
"Alexander!"
"I was about to!"
"You asshole," she barked, stepping toward him with fire in her eyes. "You left her without a proper goodbye, barely sent her letters, and instead of seeing your fiancée first, you come bother me?"
"It's not like that—"
"Then go. Now. Before I really lose my temper."
"Stop talking to me like I'm a kid, kid."
"At this point, you are. Old man. Now leave!"
He grunted and muttered something under his breath as he walked off, and she didn't even wait to hear it.
—
Alexander's visit to Melody was a whirlwind of emotion. The moment she laid eyes on him, she burst into tears, punched his chest, then hugged him tightly. There were no romantic declarations, just years of separation stitched back together with words, apologies, and awkward laughs. And, of course, Melody's over-the-top fussing about Esterphania's birthday celebration.
"She's a princess now, Alex," she said, holding his hand tightly. "A real one. She's become everything I hoped she'd grow into—and more."
Alexander didn't respond. He just nodded, eyes distant.
—
The day of the celebration came.
Esterphania woke to a dull headache and the strangest scent—light, sweet, intoxicating. It made her head spin, but not in an unpleasant way. She rubbed her temples, brushed it off, and assumed it was some trick Melody had planned to pique her curiosity for the night.
She wasn't allowed out of her room all day. Servants brought her food, helped her bathe, and finally dressed her in a flowing crimson gown that shimmered with every move she made. The fabric hugged her waist, bared her shoulders, and fell in waves around her hips.
It was… perfect. Her favorite color. Her favorite cut.
And yet, the scent was still there. Lingering.
Stronger.
More dangerous.
By the time King Lucien came to escort her to the ballroom, she could hardly think straight. Everyone around her seemed unaffected, laughing, chatting, complimenting her beauty—but she could barely smile. The scent pressed against her senses like velvet and smoke, coaxing something primal out of her.
She excused herself halfway through the second dance, escaping into the castle gardens.
The moment she stepped into the night air, she inhaled sharply—worse. It was worse.
The scent was too strong. Sweet, heady, utterly suffocating. Her thoughts were becoming scattered, her skin felt too hot, her blood too fast. She leaned on a stone wall, gazing up at the stars and trying to steady herself.
Then she turned.
And slammed straight into him.
Alexander.
He froze too.
Their eyes locked, both glowing faintly in the moonlight.
The air between them was thick, magnetic, and absolutely charged. Her breath caught in her throat. His expression morphed from surprise… to horror.
"No," he whispered, stumbling back half a step.
Esterphania's mouth went dry. "Oh, hell no."
They didn't need anyone to explain it. Didn't need spells or scrolls or books.
They knew.
One look. One breath.
She was his Erasthai.
And he was hers.
Fate had just played its cruelest card.