Chapter 19 A Tyrant’s Heart
19\. A Tyrant’s Heart
There are some sounds that haunt a place forever. In Dravenmoor, it’s the wind. It doesn’t just whistle through the stone towers—it mourns, like it remembers everything the walls want to forget.
That night, I learned why.
It started with a scream.
Not mine this time, thank the moon.
I was half-asleep, cocooned under a pile of blankets that probably cost more than my rent back home, when the sound ripped through the hall. Low. Guttural. The kind of sound you don’t forget even after your heart stops trying to escape your ribcage.
Lucian’s voice.
My body moved before my brain caught up. I didn’t even bother with shoes—just bolted out the door, my nightdress fluttering behind me like a ghost with bad decision-making skills. The corridor was dim, torches flickering like they were scared too.
His chamber door was slightly ajar.
I hesitated only for a second before pushing it open.
“Lucian?”
No answer. Just the ragged sound of breathing.
He was sitting on the edge of his bed, shirtless, drenched in sweat. The sheets were tangled around his legs, his silver eyes unfocused—haunted.
For a terrifying moment, I thought he didn’t see me. Then his gaze snapped up, sharp, glowing faintly with the mark’s power.
“K-Keira.” His voice was gravel. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Yeah, well,” I said, stepping inside carefully, “you shouldn’t be screaming bloody murder either, but here we are.”
He ran a hand over his face, muscles trembling. “It was nothing. Go back.”
“Oh sure,” I said, folding my arms, “because the man who just screamed like he was being flayed alive definitely looks fine.”
His glare could’ve melted stone. Unfortunately, I’d built up an immunity to Lucian’s death stares by now.
“Nightmare?” I asked softly.
He didn’t answer at first. Just stared at the fire burning low in the hearth. “I saw him again.”
“Your brother?”
A small nod. His voice was barely a whisper. “Leighton. Always him.”
The way he said the name—it wasn’t guilt anymore. It was grief that had grown claws.
I sat beside him, careful not to touch. “You want to talk about it?”
Lucian gave a hollow laugh. “You really think talking fixes this?”
“No,” I said. “But sometimes it keeps it from swallowing you whole.”
Silence stretched. The only sound was the fire crackling, a heartbeat trying to fill the spaces words couldn’t reach.
Then, quietly: “It was snowing that night.”
I turned my head. His eyes were far away again.
“In my dream he was waiting for me in the old courtyard,” Lucian said. “The one where we used to train as pups. He had our father’s blade. He said he wanted peace, not power. Said the curse could be broken if I’d just stop fighting.”
I stayed still, barely breathing.
“He called me brother,” Lucian continued, voice cracking. “Even when I raised my sword. Even when he fell. He never stopped calling me that.”
His hands trembled, fingers curling as though he could still feel the hilt slick with blood.
“I keep seeing his face when I close my eyes,” he whispered. “Every night. And every time, I kill him again.”
Something inside me twisted painfully.
“Lucian…”
Before I knew what I was doing, I reached for him. My hand brushed his shoulder, warm skin beneath cold sweat. He stiffened—but didn’t pull away.
“Maybe it’s not just guilt,” I said. “Maybe it’s memory trying to forgive itself.”
His breath hitched. Slowly, he turned toward me. And for a moment, I wasn’t looking at the Alpha, or the Tyrant, or the cursed king everyone feared.
I was looking at a man—broken, exhausted, still somehow alive.
“Keira.” My name came out like a warning, but softer than I’d ever heard it.
“Yes, your brooding majesty?”
That almost-smile ghosted over his lips again. It was gone in a blink, but it was there.
“You shouldn’t… see me like this.”
“Too late,” I said, meeting his gaze. “You’ve already trauma-bonded me with your royal nightmares.”
That earned me a huff. “Trauma-bonded?”
“Yeah. Happens when two people share emotional damage and questionable decision-making at twelve midnight.”
His eyes softened. “You jest even now.”
“It’s either that or cry,” I said, shrugging. “And I don’t cry pretty.”
For a long time, neither of us spoke. The tension was no longer sharp—it was heavy, magnetic. Like gravity had quietly decided we belonged too close for comfort.
Lucian’s gaze dipped briefly—to my lips, then back to my eyes.
The air thickened.
“Keira,” he murmured. “You don’t understand what being near me means.”
“Maybe not,” I said, my pulse thrumming. “But I’m tired of being afraid of things I don’t understand.”
His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair from my face. His fingers lingered at my jaw, tracing a line so gentle it burned.
“You make me forget,” he said, voice low, rough. “For a moment, I stop hearing the screams.”
I swallowed hard. “Then let me stay again. Just for tonight.”
He froze. His eyes searched mine—looking for hesitation, maybe for salvation.
And then, slowly, he leaned in.
The kiss wasn’t violent like I expected. It was desperate, restrained—like he was afraid I’d disappear if he touched me too hard. The world shrank to that single, trembling moment: his breath, my heartbeat, the firelight dancing over scarred skin.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against mine.
“This is madness,” he whispered.
“Good,” I breathed. “I was getting bored of sanity.”
His laugh was quiet, broken, real.
We didn’t speak after that. He pulled me close, the warmth of his body grounding me in a place where nothing felt real anymore. His touch was careful at first—reverent, almost hesitant—until the dam inside him cracked.
Every kiss was a confession.
Every touch, an apology.
Every shuddering breath, a war between wanting and restraint.
His hand tangled in my hair, my fingers traced the scars across his chest, shoulder and back—each one a story, each one a wound he’d never let anyone else touch.
When he whispered my name against my skin, it wasn’t the command of a king. It was the plea of a man who’d forgotten how to be human.
And I—fool that I am—answered with everything I had left.
Later, when the fire had died down and silence returned to the room, I lay beside him, tracing idle patterns on his chest. The mark on his neck glowed faintly, like moonlight through a storm cloud.
“You’re quiet,” he murmured.
“I’m thinking,” I said.
“That’s dangerous.”
“I know,” I teased weakly. Then, after a beat: “Maybe the crown isn’t the only thing heavy, Lucian.”
His hand tightened around mine. “The crown is nothing. The curse is what weighs.”
“And yet,” I said softly, “you still carry it.”
He turned to me, eyes reflecting the dying embers. “Someone has to.”
“Maybe,” I said, “you don’t have to carry it alone.”
He didn’t reply. Just looked at me in that unreadable way of his—like I was both his undoing and his reason to keep breathing.
Eventually, sleep found us both. Or something close to it.
I woke before dawn. The room was dim, the fire ash-cold. Lucian was still asleep, his expression almost peaceful for once.
I should’ve left quietly. Should’ve let him rest.
But something—some stupid, reckless part of me—made me reach out and brush my fingers across his cheek.
His eyelids fluttered. “Keira?”
“Sorry,” I whispered. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
He caught my hand before I could pull away. “You’ll regret this.”
“Probably,” I said, smiling faintly. “But not this morning.”
His thumb brushed my wrist, tracing the faint pulse there. For a heartbeat, it felt like the world outside didn’t exist.
But then the bell tower tolled—deep, low, ominous.
Lucian’s eyes darkened instantly. “They’ve moved.”
“Who?”
“The Silvermoon rebels,” he said grimly, rising from the bed. The softness vanished, replaced by command. “They’ve crossed the river.”
The war had come knocking.
He grabbed his sword and cloak, the Alpha once more. I sat frozen on the bed, his warmth still on my skin, the echo of his confession burning through me.
Before he left, he paused at the doorway.
“Keira.”
“Yeah?”
His voice was soft, but final. “Whatever happens next—remember this was real.”
And then he was gone.
I sat there, staring at the door long after it closed. My heart ached with something I couldn’t name.
Maybe Elias was right. Maybe Lucian was the Tyrant.
But I’d seen the man beneath the crown. The one who still dreamed of snow and blood and mercy.
And maybe—just maybe—villains weren’t born.
They were made.
And the worst part?
I was starting to fall in love with one.