Lysandra had always seemed unbreakable—hardened steel veiled in silk. But grief had a way of stripping the strongest down to their core, and the sudden, brutal death of Lord Marius Varys had carved a hollow into her soul. His murder—executed with chilling precision during the very banquet meant to celebrate diplomatic unity—left House Varys leaderless, wounded, and vulnerable.
Elian had been there, of course. The first to cradle her trembling form, to shield her from the panicked court and deliver vengeance-laced promises beneath his breath. His fabricated warnings, once taken with cautious optimism, now became gospel. Lysandra saw him not only as a prophet of danger but as the sole pillar strong enough to bear her sorrow.
And Elian, ever the tactician, knew it was time.
He activated Carnal Dominion, but not with the hunger of a predator—rather, with the calculated finesse of a puppeteer. This wasn't conquest through lust alone. It was grief-wrought submission, an offering of control from a woman who had lost the one man she'd never stopped trying to impress.
In the sanctuary of her private chambers—walls still adorned with fading portraits of her father—Elian spoke softly.
"You don't have to carry this alone, Lysandra. Let me carry it with you."
His hand grazed hers. A gesture that, through Carnal Dominion, pulsed raw emotion back into her. Not just lust, but yearning—an ache for warmth, security, something solid amid the collapse of her world.
She didn't pull away.
Tears shimmered in her violet eyes as she whispered, "He died believing I could protect this house. That I could be strong enough. But I wasn't."
"You are strong," Elian murmured, voice low and intimate, "but even the strongest flame flickers in the wind. Let me be your shelter."
Carnal Dominion flared within him, magnifying her need. Each brush of his fingers traced along her grief, bending it into want. Not just for Elian's touch, but for absolution—salvation in surrender. Her sorrow deepened the link, driving the sex points higher than any mere seduction could. It was exquisite, the potency of shared vulnerability.
Her lips parted—not with words, but with need.
Elian kissed her not as a conqueror, but as a mourner. Slow. Consuming. Every point of contact between them became a channel for emotion: fear, guilt, longing—all redirected into desire. The Lust System surged in approval.
That night, Lysandra let herself fall into him.
And with each breathless moan, each whispered name of her father as she clung to Elian for meaning, Elian grew stronger. Carnal Dominion fed on the intimacy of their union, rewarding him not only with raw sex points but with deeper connection—something no spell could mimic.
In the aftermath, as she slept curled against his chest, Elian unlocked a new Lust Ability:
The Griefbind Sigil — a power that anchored a target's emotional trauma to their carnal need for him. It ensured that whenever the pain of loss resurfaced, so too would the compulsion to seek Elian's touch as the only cure.
He watched her sleep, his hand brushing stray hair from her tear-streaked face.
"You're mine now, Lysandra," he whispered, voice like fire beneath ash. "Not because I took you… but because you gave yourself to me where it hurt the most."
And far away, in the silent crypts of House Varys, Lord Marius's body lay cold.
His death had left a power vacuum.
And Elian had filled it—first with fire, now with flesh.
The conquest was complete.
And it was only the beginning.
The next morning, sunlight pierced the velvet curtains, soft and golden—but its warmth never reached the chill clinging to Lysandra's skin. She stirred beneath the silk sheets, her body aching in a way that was both physical and deeply emotional. Elian sat by the window, shirtless, firelight from the hearth playing against the contours of his back as he sipped from a goblet of crimson wine.
For a long moment, she simply watched him, eyes tracing the curve of his shoulder, the elegant stillness of a predator at rest. But it was the silence that unsettled her most—an unfamiliar quiet inside her mind, as if the chaos of loss had been smothered by something vast and consuming.
"Elian," she whispered.
He turned, his eyes meeting hers—those eyes that shimmered faintly with the residual power of Carnal Dominion. There was no need for false comfort now. No words of condolence. The truth hung between them, heavy and unspoken: she had surrendered.
And worse—she didn't regret it.
Elian approached her, slow and confident, each step deliberate. He knelt beside the bed and took her hand again. The contact was electric. A flare of need surged through her chest like lightning. She gasped softly, and he smiled—not with cruelty, but with ownership.
"The pain won't vanish," he said quietly, "but I can give it purpose."
"How?" Her voice was brittle. "How do I make this loss… mean something?"
"By letting it forge you anew," he replied. "Let your grief become the steel of vengeance. But steel must first be tempered—in heat, in pressure. In surrender."
He leaned in, brushing his lips against hers. No tongue, no hunger. Just contact—soft, reverent. It felt like a seal. A vow. And Lysandra, still wrapped in grief, let herself believe in it.
Elian felt the sex points pulse within him again. Fainter now, but steady. Sustained. The Griefbind Sigil worked silently, tying her emotional cycles to the craving of his presence. A subtle dependency was blooming—one that neither spell nor strategy could undo.
But there was more to harvest.
By nightfall, House Varys would be convening its secretive inner circle to determine the next heir. The council was fractured—elders whispering doubts, rival claimants rising. Without a strong, decisive voice, House Varys would splinter.
Elian meant to ensure that voice would be Lysandra's.
And that her voice would be his.
Later, he helped her dress. The intimacy of it—his fingers adjusting the emerald clasp at her throat, smoothing the sleeves of her mourning gown—was not lost on either of them. Where once she might have bristled at being touched, now she leaned into it.
"Will they follow me?" she asked, her tone uncertain for the first time in years.
"They'll follow you," Elian said, stepping behind her and placing his hands on her shoulders, "because I'll make them see what I see."
"And what's that?"
"That the true strength of House Varys was never your father," he whispered into her ear. "It was the flame he failed to ignite in you."
She closed her eyes. Just for a moment. Letting those words burn into the hollows left behind by her grief.
Then, she opened them, violet gaze hardened into purpose.
When the council gathered, they were met not with a weeping daughter, but a woman reborn—tempered by sorrow, sharpened by lust, wielding ambition like a blade.
And beside her stood Elian, not as consort, not as ally.
But as architect.
Their gazes locked for the briefest second across the chamber. No smile passed between them. No gesture of victory.
But they both knew.
A kingdom could be won by steel and fire.
But an empire?
That would be built with shadow, skin, and secrets.
And Lysandra—unbroken no longer—would be Elian's empress of both.