Three days after the royal ball, Amor Moons sat beneath the pale shade of a flowering arbour and congratulated himself on having successfully escaped the first great catastrophe of his new life.
The private gardens of the Moons estate stretched around him in meticulously cultivated splendor, their winding paths bordered by silver-leafed hedges, lavender roses, and delicate white blossoms whose perfume sweetened the mild afternoon air. A marble fountain murmured at the center of the garden, its clear water spilling from the tilted urn of a sculpted moon maiden, while small jewel-colored birds darted between the trees and disturbed the otherwise tranquil silence with their cheerful songs. From his cushioned seat beneath the climbing vines, Amor could see only beauty, wealth, and an abundance of peaceful scenery in which no coldhearted duke was currently attempting to bruise his wrist.
It was, in his considered opinion, exactly what he deserved.
A porcelain tea service rested on the low table before him, painted with lavender moons and edged in such delicate gold that Amor had initially feared touching it too firmly. Beside the teapot stood an arrangement of sugared fruits, miniature cream cakes, and thin sandwiches trimmed into precise flower shapes, all prepared by servants who had accepted his altered appetite and strange requests without displaying more than a moment’s curiosity. Amor had spent the better part of the afternoon sampling each item while studying maps of the family estates, envisioning a future consisting of travel, luxury, and the careful avoidance of anyone important enough to appear in the original novel.
His final obligation to Alphonsins had also been completed that morning.
At Amor’s instruction, the head butler had gathered every object the original Amor had taken, borrowed, stolen, or manipulated out of the Duke of Solaris during the six months of their relationship. The collection had been embarrassingly more extensive than he’d remembered, ranging from military medals and handwritten letters to cuff links, gloves, books, a half-empty bottle of cologne, an unopened bottle of wine and several pieces of clothing that no reasonable person could have mistaken for voluntarily bestowed keepsakes. Amor had ordered everything packed into plain wooden chests and returned without a note, reasoning that silence would communicate his disinterest more effectively than any lengthy farewell.
The only item he had hesitated over was a dark military cloak lined with winter fur, not because he felt any attachment to Alphonsins, but because the garment was exceptionally warm and appeared expensive. He had nevertheless surrendered it after reminding himself that keeping even one possession might provide the duke with an excuse to visit. Amor valued a warm cloak, but he valued a peaceful household considerably more.
With every unwanted keepsake removed from his chambers, the estate itself seemed lighter.
The servants no longer rushed anxiously whenever a carriage approached the gates, apparently accustomed to the original Amor abandoning every activity the moment Alphonsins appeared. No florists had been ordered to create extravagant arrangements intended for the Solaris estate, no messengers waited in the corridors with desperate love letters, and no servants were being bribed to uncover the duke’s schedule. For the first time in months—at least according to the household staff—House Moons had experienced three consecutive days without an incident involving Alphonsins.
Amor took a slow sip of tea and breathed in the fragrant steam.
He had done it.
He had severed the relationship, returned the evidence of the original Amor’s obsession, and removed himself from the garden before he could interfere with Alphonsins and Celestine’s destined encounter. From this moment onward, the novel’s leading characters could stumble through their predetermined courtship without him, while Amor devoted himself to the far more rewarding task of spending his inherited fortune. He felt so light, so calm, and so profoundly at peace that he briefly wondered whether transmigrating into a doomed villain might prove to be the greatest stroke of luck he had ever received.
Naturally, that was the precise moment his peace shattered.
The soft crunch of shoes against the gravel path announced the approach of a servant, and Amor glanced up to find the head butler walking toward the arbour with measured urgency. Percival was a tall, silver-haired man whose posture remained immaculate regardless of the circumstance, and whose expression usually possessed the solemn neutrality of someone entrusted with generations of aristocratic secrets. Today, however, the faint tension around his mouth suggested that whatever had drawn him into the garden was neither routine nor easily dismissed.
Percival stopped several feet from Amor and bowed deeply.
"Young Master, Lord Moons has requested your presence in the foyer."
Amor’s fingers paused around the handle of his teacup.
"My father is in the foyer?"
He asked, keeping his voice mild despite the unpleasant sensation beginning to coil beneath his ribs.
"Has he only just returned?"
"His lordship arrived shortly after the ball..."
Percival explained.
"He has been occupied since this morning with honored guests and requested that you not be disturbed until their preliminary discussion had concluded."
’Honored guests?’
Amor lowered the cup carefully onto its saucer, suppressing the instinct to ask whether those guests possessed silver hair, steel-blue eyes, and an inability to understand the meaning of a breakup. Percival would have mentioned Alphonsins immediately if the duke had arrived, however, particularly after Amor’s explicit instruction that no member of House Solaris be admitted without warning. Whoever waited inside was evidently unfamiliar enough to require an extended private conversation with Lanslet Moons before Amor’s presence became necessary.
That should have reassured him. Instead, the foreboding deepened.
The original novel had devoted considerable attention to House Moons’s wealth and Amor’s eventual downfall, but surprisingly little to his father’s political dealings beyond describing Lanslet as an influential marquess with commercial interests extending beyond the kingdom’s borders. Amor had inherited fragments of the body’s memories, yet many remained blurred or inaccessible, emerging only when triggered by a familiar face, location, or phrase. Walking blindly into a meeting connected to Lanslet’s private affairs carried risks Amor could not calculate, particularly when refusing the summons would invite questions about his recent transformation.
"Did my father explain why he wishes to see me?"
Amor asked.
"No, Young Master..."
Percival replied, though his eyes shifted almost imperceptibly toward the manor.
"He said only that your presence would be required before any agreement could proceed."
Amor disliked the word agreement immediately.
Still, he could not remain in the garden indefinitely without appearing suspicious, nor could he pretend illness after spending the morning directing servants through an inventory of Alphonsins’s possessions. Whatever Lanslet wanted, Amor would have to face it with confidence and uncover the situation without exposing how little he truly understood. He rose from his cushioned chair, smoothing the layers of soft fabric over his narrow hips before offering Percival a composed nod.
"Very well..."
He said.
"Take me to him."
Percival bowed again and stepped aside, allowing Amor to leave the arbour first.
Amor followed the curved garden path toward the manor, his flowing sleeves trailing lightly through the perfumed air as the peace he had enjoyed only moments earlier receded behind him. He reminded himself that he was the sole heir of House Moons, beloved by a father who had apparently indulged the original Amor’s every reckless desire, and therefore unlikely to be marched into an execution or stripped of his fortune without warning. Unfortunately, the same indulgence that protected him could also have created promises, obligations, and dangerous alliances that the original Amor had never considered worth remembering.
His clothing that afternoon was considerably softer than the fitted ensemble he had worn to the royal ball, though no less lavish in its craftsmanship. A long tunic of pale rose silk draped over his lithe frame in fluid layers, gathered delicately beneath his chest before falling loose around his waist and hips, while the wide neckline exposed the smooth line of one collarbone. The sleeves were translucent and weightless, narrowing around his upper arms before spilling from his elbows in long folds of cream-colored chiffon that fluttered with every step.
Beneath the tunic, slim trousers in a muted lavender hugged his legs before disappearing into heeled shoes decorated with tiny moonstones. Fine silver chains had been woven through his hair, though the majority of the lavender strands had been left loose, flowing past his waist in soft waves that stirred behind him as he walked. The overall effect made him appear fragile, ethereal, and perhaps slightly too delicate to survive a strong wind without being carried into the nearest rosebush.
Amor preferred it that way.
The original owner of his body had dressed femininely because he delighted in beauty and enjoyed provoking the more conservative members of aristocratic society, but he had recognized a practical advantage beneath the indulgence. People looked at his slender limbs, soft pink eyes, and pale complexion and assumed he was harmless, spoiled, or too physically frail to pose a genuine threat. The more delicate he appeared, the less likely anyone was to notice the calculations occurring behind his ornamental fan or understand how quickly he could identify and exploit their weaknesses.
A beautiful face encouraged underestimation. Amor had learned long before entering this world that underestimated people possessed the greatest freedom to maneuver.
He entered the manor through a set of glass garden doors, leaving the fragrant warmth of the grounds behind as the cool grandeur of House Moons closed around him. The interior corridors were paneled in pale wood and decorated with silver moldings, celestial murals, and enormous windows designed to capture as much natural light as possible. Every polished surface gleamed beneath crystal lamps, from the veined marble floors to the narrow tables displaying sculptures and vases collected from distant kingdoms.
Percival accompanied him in respectful silence, keeping half a step behind as Amor proceeded through the western gallery. Several servants paused to bow when he passed, their eyes lowering with proper deference, though he noticed the faint curiosity hidden within more than one expression. News of the mysterious visitors had evidently spread throughout the household, and whatever appearance or behavior had inspired that curiosity was unusual enough to unsettle servants trained not to react when the original Amor returned home with stolen ducal property.
The sound of distant voices grew clearer as they approached the central foyer.
One voice belonged to Lanslet Moons, melodious and refined even when speaking about matters of business, while the others were deeper and far rougher than anything Amor had heard within the aristocratic circles of the capital. The unfamiliar language rolled through the open chamber in resonant syllables, interrupted by occasional phrases in the kingdom’s common tongue that carried a heavy, unfamiliar accent. Even before reaching the foyer, Amor could tell that his father’s visitors were not ordinary nobles.
A servant opened the inner doors, and Percival stopped near the threshold.
"His lordship is waiting below, Young Master."
Amor stepped into the upper gallery overlooking the foyer.
His heels struck the polished marble with a light, rhythmic clack as he approached the head of the grand staircase, one hand resting against the silver balustrade. Sunlight streamed through the enormous arched windows above the entrance, spilling across the white-and-gray marble floor and illuminating the celestial mosaics set into its surface. From this elevated position, Amor could see his father standing beneath the central chandelier with his hands folded elegantly behind his back.
Marquess Lanslet Moons looked like the reflection Amor might find in a mirror several decades into the future.
His hair possessed the same remarkable lavender color, though silver had begun to thread through the long strands gathered loosely over one shoulder, and his eyes were the same soft pink that distinguished the Moons bloodline from every other noble family in the kingdom. Time had sharpened his delicate features rather than diminishing them, lending his beauty a mature, almost regal quality, while fine lines at the corners of his eyes suggested years of indulgent amusement rather than hardship. Even dressed in a high-collared robe of ivory and muted violet, he retained a graceful femininity that would have looked fragile on another man but appeared effortless and commanding upon him.
The first time Amor had awakened from his fever and seen Lanslet beside his bed, he had been rendered momentarily speechless.
Until that encounter, he had never believed a man could possess such striking beauty without appearing unreal, particularly one old enough to have an adult son. Lanslet seemed carved from pale moonstone, every gesture refined and every expression made more captivating by the contrast between his gentle appearance and his shrewd, observant gaze. He had privately concluded that no human being could possibly surpass him.
Then he had looked into a mirror and been forced to revise his judgment.
He had inherited Lanslet’s ethereal coloring, but where age had given the marquess an elegant severity, youth had softened Amor into something dangerously alluring. His features were finer, his eyes wider, and his mouth fuller, while his slender body possessed the flexible grace of a dancer rather than the composed stillness of an established lord. Comparing them was like comparing the moon at midnight to the first blush of dawn—both beautiful, though in entirely different ways.
Yet Lanslet was not what held Amor’s attention now. Two men stood opposite his father, and their presence transformed the refined foyer into something almost surreal.
They appeared so drastically out of place among the silver ornamentation, polished marble, and delicate celestial décor that Amor initially wondered whether they had entered the estate after surviving an attack on the road. Neither wore anything resembling the layered garments favored by the kingdom’s nobility, nor did they possess the polished armor and disciplined posture of royal knights. They looked instead like figures pulled from an ancient legend and placed abruptly inside a palace that had never been designed to contain them.
Both men were immense.
Their bodies were not built like those of the kingdom’s knights, whose strength was honed beneath structured training and concealed beneath uniforms or armor, but like the wrestlers and strongmen Amor remembered from the modern world. Dense muscle shaped their shoulders, chests, and arms, hardened through years of physical labor and brutal survival rather than cultivated for appearance. Even standing at ease, they carried a raw physical power that made the surrounding servants look alarmingly breakable.
Very little fabric concealed them. Their broad chests and powerful legs remained almost entirely bare, exposing deep caramel skin that gleamed beneath the foyer’s crystal lights as though lightly polished with oil. Thick belts of leather and braided cord rested low around their hips, supporting layered pieces of dark monster fur that covered only the most intimate portions of their bodies. Additional strips of fur wrapped around their calves and forearms, decorated with bone beads, carved teeth, and small metal charms whose purposes Amor could not immediately guess.
Black tribal markings covered their skin. The designs began along their throats and shoulders before descending over their chests, arms, and sides in thick, angular patterns, resembling claws, flames, and symbols belonging to an alphabet forgotten by the kingdom. Although the two men shared several markings, the arrangement differed enough to suggest personal significance rather than simple decoration. Some lines appeared old and slightly faded, while others remained dark and raised against the skin, perhaps added after recent victories or ceremonies.
The older man wore the most striking garment Amor had ever seen.
A massive wolf pelt had been draped across his shoulders as a cloak, its gray-and-black fur descending along his broad back nearly to his knees. The animal’s lower jaw had been removed so that its hollowed head could rest over the man’s own like a savage hood, leaving the wolf’s pointed ears standing above his dark hair while its empty eyes stared lifelessly toward the foyer. Its front paws crossed beneath his throat and had been tied together with leather cords, anchoring the heavy pelt around his neck.
A dark beard, threaded faintly with gray, covered the older man’s jaw, confirming Amor’s assumption that he was the elder of the pair. His features were severe and deeply masculine, marked by a crooked scar cutting from his left temple toward the bridge of his nose, while several smaller scars crossed his shoulders and ribs. He carried no visible sword, but a stone-headed axe rested strapped to his leather belt beside him, its handle thick enough that Amor doubted any ordinary soldier could lift it comfortably.
The younger man carried no weapon at all. He did not need one to appear dangerous.
He stood slightly taller than his companion, his body just as robust but shaped with the smooth, brutal strength of someone in the full prime of youth. His black hair was thick and uneven, falling around his face in loose strands before reaching the tops of his shoulders, while several narrow braids near his temples had been decorated with carved beads and the gleaming teeth of some small predator. Unlike the older barbarian, his face remained clean-shaven, revealing a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and a mouth whose full shape seemed almost too refined for the savagery of his clothing.
The markings across the younger man’s body also differed.
A black design resembling the spread wings of a predatory bird stretched across his broad chest, its hooked feathers curving over his shoulders before narrowing down his spine. Smaller symbols circled his upper arms and wound along his ribs, emphasizing every shift of muscle beneath his caramel skin. Around his neck hung a cord strung with claws, dark stones, and a single pale tooth nearly as long as Amor’s smallest finger.
For several moments, Amor remained fixed at the top of the staircase.
The scene below demanded his full attention, and even the uneasy feeling that had accompanied Percival’s summons faded beneath his fascination. He had met polished nobles, armored knights, merchants from neighboring lands, and servants belonging to nearly every social rank mentioned within the novel, yet he had never seen anyone who resembled these two men. Nothing about them belonged within the cultivated elegance of the kingdom, from their exposed bodies and brutal ornaments to the quiet vigilance with which they surveyed the unfamiliar estate.
’They resembled... barbarians.’
The word emerged from Amor’s memory alongside scattered references from the original novel—distant northern territories, monster-infested mountains, and clans that once rejected the laws of settled kingdoms. Those passages had been brief, included mainly to emphasize the dangerous lands beyond the empire’s borders, but they described tribes of warriors whose strength rivaled magical beasts and whose customs remained largely unknown to civilized society. The novel’s central romance had never ventured far enough north for such people to become relevant.
Which meant their presence at House Moons was not part of the plot Amor remembered.
Lanslet noticed him first.
His pink eyes rose toward the staircase, and a subtle smile touched his lips as though he had anticipated precisely how long his son would stand there studying their guests.
"Amor, my moonlight, there you are."
At the sound of his name, both foreigners turned.
Their movements were almost identical, yet the impressions they created could not have been more different. The older man looked toward Amor with sharp, immediate assessment, his gaze traveling from the silver ornaments in Amor’s hair to the heels beneath his flowing trousers as though evaluating a familiar creature that had changed suddenly. The younger man simply stared.
Amor’s breath caught before he could prevent it.
Both men possessed eyes darker than any he had encountered since entering this world, not merely brown or black, but deep, polished obsidian that seemed to absorb the foyer’s abundant light. The older man’s gaze was hard and knowing, bearing the weight of experience and command, while the younger man’s carried a startling intensity that held Amor in place. There was no visible warmth at first glance within those dark depths, but neither was there contempt for his feminine clothing or delicate appearance.
There was only focus.
The younger barbarian’s attention settled upon Amor with such unbroken concentration that the distance between the staircase and foyer seemed to narrow. His gaze moved slowly over the pale rose silk draped around Amor’s body, the translucent sleeves floating beside his arms, and the river of lavender hair spilling far below his waist. When his eyes finally returned to Amor’s face, something subtle shifted in his expression, though the unfamiliar severity of his features made the emotion impossible to name.
Amor found himself equally unable to look away.
The man’s obsidian eyes were captivating in a manner entirely unlike Alphonsins’s cold steel-blue gaze, carrying something ancient, instinctive, and profoundly untamed. They reminded Amor of volcanic glass formed beneath unbearable heat, beautiful only because it had survived the violence that created it. Standing beneath that stare, Amor experienced the peculiar sensation that the younger man was not merely seeing the delicate noble heir everyone else perceived, but searching for whatever danger might be concealed beneath the flowing silk.
That possibility sent a thrill of wariness through him.
Lanslet’s smile widened almost imperceptibly as he looked between them.
"Come down, Amor. There are people I would very much like you to meet."
Amor gathered the side of his tunic with one graceful hand and began descending the staircase, his heels clicking against the marble in a measured rhythm. The flowing layers shifted around his slender body like petals disturbed by a breeze, making him appear even more fragile beside the enormous warriors waiting below. He kept his expression serenely curious, concealing the questions multiplying behind his pink eyes as thoroughly as he concealed every other dangerous thought.
The younger man followed every step.
He did not glance toward Lanslet, his older companion, or the servants attempting not to stare from the edges of the foyer. His attention remained fixed entirely upon Amor, dark eyes tracing his gradual descent with an intensity that bordered upon possession despite the fact that they had never met. By the time Amor reached the final step, the warrior’s hands had curled slowly at his sides, thick fingers flexing once before becoming still.
Amor stopped beside his father. Up close, the difference in their sizes became almost absurd.
The younger barbarian towered over him, his shoulders so broad that Amor suspected he could conceal most of his body behind one of them, while each heavily muscled thigh appeared nearly as thick as Amor’s waist. The scent surrounding him was unfamiliar but not unpleasant, carrying traces of woodsmoke, cold mountain air, animal hide, and something warm beneath it all that reminded Amor of sun-heated stone. There was nothing polished or perfumed about him, yet his presence affected the refined foyer more powerfully than any jeweled noble Amor had encountered at court.
Lanslet placed a light hand against Amor’s back, guiding him half a step forward.
"My son, these are our honored visitors from the northern wildlands."
The older barbarian struck one closed fist against the center of his chest and inclined his head, the closest gesture to a bow his pride apparently permitted. The wolf’s lifeless head shifted above him as he moved, its empty jaws framing his weathered face.
"I am Vervath Rhazien, chieftain of the Blackstone Tribe..."
His accent roughened the kingdom’s language, turning each word into something deep and resonant. Vervath gestured toward the younger man beside him, though his dark gaze remained carefully upon Amor.
"And this is my firstborn son."
The younger barbarian finally moved. He stepped forward, closing enough of the distance that Amor had to tilt his head farther back to maintain eye contact. Up close, the black markings across his chest appeared even more intricate, intersecting above his heart before disappearing beneath the fur at his hips. A faint scar crossed the lower edge of his mouth, almost hidden until his lips parted.
"I am Valdor Rhazien."
He said. His voice was deeper than Amor expected, carrying the low vibration of distant thunder across the marble foyer. He spoke Amor’s language more carefully than his father, though the foreign cadence remained unmistakable, shaping the simple introduction into something strangely intimate. Valdor’s obsidian eyes did not leave Amor’s face for so much as a heartbeat.
"Amor Moons..."
Amor replied, allowing the faintest smile to touch his plump pink lips.
"Though I suspect my father has already told you that."
Valdor’s gaze lowered briefly to Amor’s mouth.
"He has."
The barbarian answered. Something in the way he said it made Amor suspect that his name had been discussed far more extensively than etiquette required.
The uneasy feeling that had drawn Amor from the garden returned with renewed force, curling deep within his stomach as he looked from the barbarian chieftain to Lanslet’s quietly pleased expression. There was an agreement awaiting his presence, Percival had said, and two foreign warriors had traveled from the distant northern wildlands to stand in the foyer of House Moons. Whatever connection existed between those facts, Amor doubted it would be as peaceful as the life he had been imagining over tea.
Still, his attention returned to Valdor Rhazien.
The younger barbarian remained entirely too interesting to ignore, from the brutal markings covering his powerful body to the unreadable darkness of his eyes. Amor had intended to spend his future avoiding the novel’s important men, preserving his wealth, and cultivating a life free from romantic catastrophes. Yet as Valdor studied him with the silent intensity of a predator encountering something rare, Amor could not suppress the dangerous flicker of curiosity awakening beneath his caution.
Whoever these men were, they had not come merely to exchange pleasantries with his father.
And judging by the way Valdor looked at him, Amor suspected they had come for him.