Emeric Paxley

[ Emeric Paxley ,Male Lead - From a declining house of quiet desperation — status high, but influence weak.

Raised to obey, perform, and smile. A perfect shell.

𝖫𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗂𝖺 embarrassed him in court, ignored his affections, and outshone him everywhere.

Over time, his love twisted into resentment, then obsession.]

[ Lavina Belvoir, Female Lead - She comes from a noble family older, richer, and more politically sharp than Emeric’s.

Brilliant, commanding, unshakable. She was the one people listened to.

Their families have generational hatred — born from betrayal, land, or bloodlines.

She was betrothed to him for political reasons, but she never loved him — only used him as leverage. ]

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Three years ago, a fire broke out.

The Paxley family — once loyal servants of the empire — stood trial for treason.

But before the truth could surface, they were assassinated.

Overnight.

Every last Paxley was found dead.

The case was buried. The fire blamed. The names forgotten.

The killer was never found.

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Emeric's POV :

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗎𝗉 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗒. 𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀– 𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗍.

𝖠𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖡𝖾𝗅𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋. 𝖠 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗀𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖾...𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒'𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗎𝖼𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗋– 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗇𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖽𝗎𝗌𝗍.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖡𝖾𝗅𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝖻𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗍. 𝖲𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌, 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝖾𝗇𝖽 — 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽.

𝖠𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗌, 𝖺 𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽. 𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗒𝖾.

𝖨 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽.

𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝖽.

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𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌.

𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗄 𝗎𝗇𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈. 𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝖨 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗍.

𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 — 𝗎𝗇𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 — 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗅. 𝖬𝗒 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗌, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝗅𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌. 𝖮𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗄 𝗅𝖺𝗒 𝖺 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗇’𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽:

- “𝖡𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇. 𝖯𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝖻𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅. — 𝖫.”

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𝖫𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗂𝖺 𝖡𝖾𝗅𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇 𝗂𝗍. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈 𝗃𝖾𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗀𝗈𝗅𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 kind that denotes the entire Belvoir bloodline.

𝖧𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖨 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋.

...----------------...

Thirty days passed with the slow dignity of winter.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗇, 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍.

𝖴𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖨 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗒𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍-𝗂𝗋𝗈𝗇 𝗀𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖯𝖺𝗑𝗅𝖾𝗒 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗒𝖺𝗋𝖽, 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗁 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌.

𝖨 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗒 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖻𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾 — 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾. 𝖨 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋. 𝖬𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗆𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌, 𝗎𝗇𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖬𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍? 𝖨𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽.

𝖠 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖨 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝖡𝖾𝗅𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋, 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽.

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