Eros de Lacia

Eros sat in the gloom of his new chambers, completely shrouded in heavy fabric that concealed his pallor and the traces of his affliction. He attempted to focus on the lines of a letter that had arrived unexpectedly today from the Imperial Palace. The letters blurred before his eyes, yet he stubbornly read into every word.

"Eros de Lacia, you have reached the age where marriage is required. Given your... condition, this is practically impossible, but the concubine Ingrid has agreed to assist in this matter. Today, the daughter of Count Aaron will arrive; she shall become your fiancée and future wife. In one month, you both are to appear at the Imperial Palace to solemnize the marriage. Provided, of course, that you live to see that day.

A wave of sharp pain surged through his body once more—the black threads seemed to react to every heavy word. Eros gritted his teeth, refusing to let himself even flinch. In the courtyard of the derelict estate, there was a commotion: the creak of wheels, muffled voices. He slowly raised a heavy gaze toward the window; a carriage was pulling into the courtyard.

Taking a deep breath, Eros turned and began to descend the creaking staircase. Below, an unexpected guest was already waiting for him.

— So, it is you, my future bride? Do not expect to be welcomed here. This place is a tomb, not a fairy tale— he spoke in a flat, almost lifeless voice, devoid of surprise or hope, carrying only coldness and detachment.