The Devil's Son and His Fated Bride
Chapter 254: The Fae realm.

Chapter 254: The Fae realm.

Alekin, though strong in posture, looked broken. This was a farewell, and he knew it. The kind that split a heart in two. Hector knew it too. He had felt that exact ache. The day his mother died... and again, a year later, when their world went to hell. The rebellion had torched their village. He had run through fire, desperate to find one person, Lora. Her house was ablaze. No signs of her, only screams and smoke.

Now, standing here, he looked at her. And she was already looking at him.

She had been watching him the whole time.

His heart thudded strangely in his chest.

"Enough," Benkin muttered, his voice cracking. "Please, end this miserable farewell already. Alekin, be cautious, my death makes plenty of people happy."

He closed his eyes. He had said everything that mattered. Words now only deepened the pain. It was time. Time to surrender, to the judgment of the Fae.

The portal swallowed them in a flash of sharp, piercing light. Hector instinctively shielded his eyes, but even through closed lids, the brilliance seared across his vision like a blade.

Then, snow.

White, endless snow stretched across the land like a shroud. A thick, ominous cloud hovered above, swallowing the sky. The air was so crisp it almost whistled through their bones.

"Winter here too," Ren muttered, tightening her cloak around her belly.

"Yes. I’m taking you to the Winter Palace."

Agara’s voice was calm, but something beneath it trembled.

They turned at his gesture, and what met their eyes stole the breath from their lungs.

A colossal castle loomed behind them, ethereal, crystalline, glowing like shaped ice bathed in starlight. Its towers shimmered with magic, and above it danced a stream of colors, ribbons of light that twisted and curled across the sky like silk in the wind.

"The Fae Auroras," Hector breathed.

"You know about them?" Agara turned to him, brows raised in surprise.

Hector nodded faintly, eyes lost in the colors. "Yes... Acelieth told me."

The name stung as it left his lips. Acelieth, the only one among the vampire lords who had shown him real loyalty. A friend in a world of predators. He didn’t deserve that death.

He swallowed hard, the wound still fresh in his heart. The image of Lucieth’s hand, merciless and glowing with light, delivering death where mercy could have been given... It haunted him.

Agara’s jaw clenched. He too had been unable to forgive his brother. He could have captured Acelieth. He could have brought him home.

But instead... the crown prince had simply ended him.

The snow crunched beneath their feet as they approached the palace, but no one spoke. Grief, old and new, settled like frost in their lungs.

Agara silently pushed the wheelchair forward, its wheels rolling over a cobbled stone path that sparkled faintly with frost. On either side, majestic trees lined the way, tall and ancient, their leaves shimmering like silver in the dim winter light. The quiet crunch of snow beneath their feet was the only sound, a hush of reverence thickening the air as they approached the heart of the Fae realm.

Up ahead, rows of Fae guards stood like statues in white ceremonial uniforms. Their presence was both regal and strange. Each one bore a unique appearance, vivid hair in colors of fire, sapphire, amethyst, and gold, eyes gleaming like polished gemstones. No two were alike. Their diversity was unnatural to human eyes, and yet in perfect harmony. Ren couldn’t stop staring.

When they reached the massive white doors of the palace, she gasped softly. The surface was covered in intricate carvings, interwoven branches, climbing vines, and spiraling leaves so delicate and lifelike it seemed they might bloom at a breath.

How could anyone carve such detail into wood? She wondered, then remembered. Of course. The Fae.

Every Fae was born with a unique gift, and this... this had to be the work of one touched by nature’s magic, a craftsman who didn’t carve, but commanded wood to grow into art.

Ren’s gaze drifted to her brother. Hector stood quietly beside her, eyes wide with the same wonder. For a man raised in hardship and bloodshed, beauty like this was almost unreal. Even he couldn’t hide the awe.

But their father, King Benkin, remained still, his expression unreadable. Perhaps it was exhaustion. Perhaps something deeper. His pain clung to him like a shadow, and here, in this realm where Sunkiath’s golden magic could not reach, there was no balm strong enough to dull his pain.

Ren’s eyes wandered over the towering sculptures, carved from moonstone and shimmering crystal, ancient guardians that loomed over the courtyard with ageless dignity. Beyond them stretched a breathtaking vista: snow-laced terraces, glowing flora, and the endless horizon of the Fae lands painted in hues of soft twilight and radiant auroras.

She was still marveling at the grandeur when the massive gates ahead slowly creaked open, without a single glance from the guards stationed there. No acknowledgment. No greeting. As though their presence was expected, yet unimportant.

The moment the doors parted, a wave of warmth poured out, banishing the winter chill that clung to their cloaks. Rich, aromatic scents filled the air, sweet incense, roasted herbs, and something faintly floral yet unfamiliar, a perfume only the Fae could conjure.

Inside, they were being watched.

At the center of the grand entryway stood four figures: two Fae women of otherworldly beauty, their features sculpted in perfection so surreal it was almost disorienting. And between them, poised like a blade wrapped in silk, stood Lucieth, Crown Prince of the Fae.

An older male Fae stood silently at his side, the fine embroidery of his robes and the gentle grace of his posture marking him as the royal steward, perhaps the Fae King’s personal butler.

Ren’s fingers tightened instinctively around her husband’s hand. Something felt... off. The room was radiant, the setting regal, but the atmosphere was heavy, and somehow indistinct.

The expressions on their hosts’ faces were neither warm nor hostile, just vague, emotionless masks carved of ice and protocol. No one stepped forward to greet them.

Then Lucieth spoke.

"Welcome to Rezgaith," he said at last, his tone cold, clipped, and oddly formal. "It is an honor to host you here, my dear niece."

So this was Rezgaith, Ren thought. The capital of the Fae, and one of their greatest cities. It felt more like stepping into a temple than a home.

"The honor is mine," she replied, her voice steady. But even as she spoke, she caught the way Lucieth’s gaze slid past her, fixating entirely on the man behind her.

Hector.

Lucieth’s pupils narrowed ever so slightly, a flicker of unspoken calculation surfacing in his eyes.

Ren felt it too.

This meeting wasn’t just about the King. Not anymore.