Twilight settled over Veilspire like a silk veil stained in gold and soot. The slums shimmered beneath it, caught in that in-between moment where light hadn't quite given up, and the night was just beginning to stretch its claws. Rusted rooftops bled fire as the last breath of sunlight grazed them, casting long shadows that clung to cracked stone like ghosts reluctant to leave. Somewhere in the distance, a child's laughter danced briefly into the air before vanishing into silence—as if even innocence didn't linger here for long.
Ardyn moved through the maze of alleyways alone, each turn of the path curling around him like a coiled serpent. The city breathed around him, heavy and watchful, whispering secrets beneath its breath. Wildflowers, stubborn and out of place, pushed through splits in the stone, their petals bruised but alive, perfuming the rot with something strangely hopeful. The contrast of beauty and ruin made the streets feel almost sacred, like a place caught between being forgotten and remembered.
He kept his head down, his steps steady, unremarkable to those watching from behind shuttered windows and broken doors. But inside, something pulsed. The mark on his wrist glowed beneath his sleeve, faint but insistent, like a heartbeat refusing to be ignored. The Forbidden Harem System. Once foreign, now familiar. More than a tool. More than a curse. It was a whisper that lived just beneath his skin, seductive in its silence, always waiting.
Kael's eyes still lingered in his memory, sharp and unsure at the same time, haunted by the knife she couldn't bring herself to drive home. The Saintess had nearly collapsed in his arms, divine no longer but raw and human in the most heartbreaking way. Seraphine had been fire and silk, a woman carved from elegance and threat, stepping into his world like she'd owned it long before he ever arrived.
But this night… this night felt different.
The system had started feeding him glimpses. A place that didn't show up on maps. Not truly a location, not exactly a memory. More like a myth that walked with its own shadow. The whispers called it the Forbidden Garden, but no one said the name without lowering their voice, as if the syllables themselves might sprout roots in their throat and bloom into something they couldn't swallow.
Now, Ardyn stood before it.
There shouldn't have been anything here. Just a crumbling stone wall wrapped in vines and thorns. But between the roots, an arch had formed, narrow and crooked. A shimmer lingered beyond it, soft and pulsing like a breath being held too long. Blossoms curled around the stone like they'd grown hungry for the light, their petals faintly glowing in the deepening dusk.
He took a slow breath, expecting stillness.
But then he heard it.
A laugh—low, rich, dangerous. It curled into the air like smoke, warm and invasive.
"You hesitate," a voice said, smooth as velvet and just as lethal, "but you knew you'd come."
He turned sharply, and there she was.
Half-cast in shadow, her figure stood framed just beyond the threshold. The light refused to settle on her fully, as if even it couldn't decide whether to admire or fear her. Her eyes were liquid gold, not glowing—but glowing. They stared at him with patience sharpened to a point. Her hair, thick and black as ink, spilled down her shoulders like a river untouched by wind. She didn't wear a crown, yet every inch of her body carried the weight of royalty, the kind that didn't need to prove itself.
"I didn't expect a welcome," he said, voice low.
She stepped forward, and the thorns bent around her as if too afraid to touch. Her movements weren't rushed. She moved like someone who owned the space around her, like someone who had never needed to hurry in her life.
"No one is welcomed here," she replied. "They're chosen."
She stopped in front of him, the scent of jasmine clinging to her like a warning disguised as perfume. Her fingers hovered near his chest, close enough to feel, not close enough to touch.
"I am Lysandra," she said softly. "Mistress of this place. Its guardian… and its prisoner. And now, your guide."
He swallowed, trying to steady the weight in his throat. "Guide to what?"
She tilted her head slightly, her voice dropping into something that felt like it belonged in a dream.
"To your own hunger."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was full. Full of questions, full of tension, full of something he didn't have a name for. He searched her face, trying to find the lie behind the beauty. But there wasn't one. She believed every word she said.
"And the Garden," he asked finally, "what does it offer?"
She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she stepped to the side and lifted her hand. The vines behind her uncoiled, sliding open like gates made of breath and secrets. Beyond them, the path shimmered with impossible colors. Flowers glowed softly, pulsing with a rhythm that felt alive. The air inside buzzed, not with sound, but with something older—something watching.
"It offers what your soul craves," she said. "Power wrapped in beauty. Seduction dressed as truth. The means to pull your threads tighter until you no longer remember where they end and you begin."
He stared into the Garden, his chest rising slowly.
"And the price?"
She smiled—not kind, not cruel. Just real.
"Everything you pretend not to want."
The system flickered through his mind like a whisper caught on wind.
[Thread Candidate Detected: Lysandra – Mistress of the Forbidden Garden]
[Classification: Apex Thread – Emotional Hazard Level: Extreme]
[Bond Status: Dormant. Initiation Available.]
His fingers curled slightly at his side. He wasn't afraid of pain. Not anymore. But the want—that scared him. How badly he wanted to walk through that gate. How deeply the Garden already called to him.
Lysandra's eyes narrowed, golden and unblinking.
"Say it," she whispered. "Choose the Garden."
A long pause hung between them. Then Ardyn raised his head.
"I accept."
She didn't grin. She didn't gloat. Her lips curved into something deeper than satisfaction. Something intimate. Like a woman who'd been waiting centuries to be seen.
The Garden responded instantly.
Light flared across its petals. Vines recoiled and rolled open. The air turned thick, almost sweet, like the space itself was breathing. Music drifted in, soft and haunting, notes not played by any hand.
She reached out and placed her palm against his chest.
Heat bloomed outward like fire fed with longing. The mark on his wrist pulsed violently, screaming with need.
[Bond Initiation: Lysandra]
[Warning: Sensory Overload Imminent. Mental Distortion Risk High.]
The world tilted. He gasped as color blurred, sound turned thick, and the ground beneath him seemed to fall away. But Lysandra's hand didn't move. She anchored him. Her presence was the only thing keeping him from unraveling.
And then, just as suddenly, it was over.
The Garden had changed.
They now stood in its heart—a place untouched by Veilspire's decay. Moonlight pooled in shallow streams. Blossoms lit the ground with their glow, and the air thrummed with energy so pure it felt ancient.
Lysandra sat now, legs crossed on a crescent-shaped bench of stone, watching him with the calm of a predator who had no need to chase.
"You're different," she murmured. "Most come here chasing pleasure. You carry chaos like a crown."
He met her gaze. "It's the only thing I've ever ruled."
"That's why the Garden opened for you."
He took a step forward, the grass softer than any silk he'd touched.
"What now?"
"Now you learn how to make sin obey."
She reached for a flower nearby, and as her fingers grazed its petal, it opened with a sharp hiss, releasing gold pollen into the air like smoke curling from a candle.
"The women you've bound to you," she continued, "feed the Garden. Their emotions shape its roots. Desire nourishes. Fear weakens. But jealousy…" Her eyes glowed brighter. "Jealousy is the most potent of all. It can rot a soul, or birth a god."
Ardyn stared at his hands, quiet. Kael. The Saintess. Seraphine. Each one circling him like moons caught in collision courses.
"They're going to clash," he said softly. "It's already starting."
Lysandra nodded. "And when they do, you must be ready to gather the pieces and build something worthy from the wreckage."
The system surged again.
[New Thread Initiated: Lysandra – Mistress of the Forbidden Garden]
[Status: Stabilizing. Emotional State: Deep Curiosity, Laced With Longing]
[New Ability Acquired: Garden's Pact – Increases charm during emotional conflict. Grants passive resistance to emotional backlash.]
Later, beneath a sky thick with stars, he returned to the Saintess.
She sat at the altar again, still draped in white, still alone—but different now. Sharper. Her silence no longer felt like surrender. It felt like a blade being honed.
"You feel it, don't you?" he asked.
She didn't turn. "The tension. It's thicker than breath."
"I went to the Garden."
Her shoulders stiffened. "Then it's begun."
He moved closer, letting his fingers brush hers. The contact was soft, but it sent something sharp between them.
"You carry them all," she said, voice tight. "Their hunger. Their anger. Their fear. It clings to you now."
He gave a slow, tired smile.
"And their jealousy."
The Garden had marked him. The women had tied themselves to him. The system had awakened something deeper than power. This was no longer about survival.
This was ascension.
And jealousy would be the throne he sat upon.