Married To Darkness-Chapter 430: Drama Around The Fantasy World

Deep in the woods of Wyfn-Garde, far from the warmth of the Moor Mansion and the tearful reunion that had just taken place, the scent of blood clung to the trees like fog.

Crows circled above, drawn by the carnage below. The forest, once silent, echoed with the guttural cries of battle, the clashing of blades, and the gurgle of dying men.

A lone banner lay shredded in the mud, its sigil unrecognizable—trampled by desperate boots.

The bounty had done this.

A reward so rich, so tempting, it had turned the kingdom’s most dangerous outlaws and mercenaries into a pack of frenzied hounds, snapping at one another’s throats before they could even scent their prey.

They were bounty hunters—but not the quiet, calculating kind.

These ones wore names like armor.

Black Rend. Steel Widow. Gravel. Knifetooth. The Four-Lunged.

They called themselves things meant to instill fear. And now, they were proving their reputations true.

"You crossed my line, Knifetooth!" snarled a beast of a man, half his face tattooed in ash, the other half smeared with fresh blood. "We agreed the east side was mine!"

Knifetooth spat a broken tooth onto the ground, his curved dagger gleaming red. "You were taking too long, Rend. I figured I’d be generous and claim your territory and your share."

The men around them shifted—dozens of them, all scarred and armed, watching with twitching fingers.

Many had once fought together in distant wars. Now they stood on opposite sides, bonded only by gold-lust and mistrust.

"Fools," muttered Steel Widow, a woman in dark armor with silver needles for blades. "While you squabble, another will find the prince and take the reward. We should band together and finish this."

Gravel, a hulking brute with a voice like crushed rocks, shook his head. "No alliances. No second splits. Only one head gets paid. That’s what the bounty said."

That was the poison at the root of it all: The royal bounty was for one hunter. One prize. No sharing.

They’d started as uneasy allies—scouring the kingdom together.

But greed had teeth.

And now, greed was baring them.

Suddenly, a hunter called Bravetail—a younger, leaner rogue with twin blades and a twitchy eye—lunged without warning at Knifetooth. His blade bit deep into the man’s side, and chaos exploded like thunder.

Swords were drawn. Axes swung. Bodies collided in muddy leaves and shattered shields.

Screams rent the air.

Fire arrows burst from the trees, and another faction, hidden and watching, joined the madness.

"Kill them all!" shouted a woman in red, her hair a tangle of braids. "Let the last hunter standing claim the prize!"

Within moments, the forest had become a war zone.

Pines were set aflame. Men were impaled on roots. Traps exploded under stomping boots. One hunter strangled another with a chain while whispering, "Mine, mine, mine..."

And all for the third prince and his people.

They didn’t care about his innocence. They didn’t care if he was guilty of whatever rumor they’d heard. The reward was gold—and power.

Far away in the Moor Mansion, the hunted had no idea just how desperate the hounds had become.

**

At the same time, Far beyond the misty borders of Wyfn-Garde, past the silver rivers and sharp cliffs that framed the elegant Kingdom/Empire Critic-Ishire, the air was crisper, scented with lavender and ink.

Marble towers spiraled like frozen music notes, and noble houses stood like painted sculptures—a place where politics thrived in whispered tones and teacups clinked louder than swords.

Inside one of those towers, in the carved oak office of Lord Zachary of Critic-Ishelm, a gentle tick-tick of the quill brushing parchment filled the sunlit space.

The lord sat with one elbow resting elegantly on the polished desk, his black hair pulled into a silken tail, his sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows.

A slim pencil of black lined his sharp grey eyes—Zachary’s signature vanity, despite his status as one of Critic-Ishire’s most feared and respected noblemen.

Then came the knock. Not a formal, respectful one.

A familiar one.

"Oh gods," Zachary muttered before even lifting his gaze. "You again."

The door creaked open with flair. Enjo, bright-eyed and bronzed skin, with tousled curly hair and a grin far too wide for someone with no appointments, leaned on the doorframe like a rogue prince from a forgotten tale.

"Good morning to you, my beloved lord," Enjo declared, stepping in without invitation. He wore an open crimson coat, boots too clean to have seen dirt, and a coin tucked between his fingers that he kept flipping out of boredom—or mischief.

Zachary raised one brow. "You only call me ’beloved’ when you’re about to say something dangerous or stupid."

"Can’t it be both?" Enjo smirked and plopped into the armchair across from him, resting his boots on the edge of Zachary’s ornate desk. "So, I heard a rumor."

Zachary didn’t pause his writing. "You always do."

"No, but this one’s juicy. Apparently, the third prince of that too many royals kingdom; Wyfn-Garde, is on the run."

That made Zachary’s quill stop mid-letter. What?

Enjo grinned wider. "And there’s a bounty on his head and his people. Enough wyfins to build a small mansion."

Lord Zachary rolled his eyes, "We don’t use wyfins here Sam, we use Crits,"

"Please don’t call me Sam also we can change the money,"

Zachary pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling like a disappointed father. "You are not going bounty hunting, Enjo."

"But think about it! That price? That’s a prince! The Demon Prince, they say. Worth every risk. We could—"

"We are not mercenaries." he cut him off.

"Right, we’re rich noblemen who are bored."

Zachary stood and walked to the towering shelf behind him, choosing a book with a spine encrusted in silver. "You would die before your foot touched Wyfn soil. You’re charming, yes. Dangerous? I’m not sure, only that you’re stubborn. That’s all I’m giving you."

"I can be dangerous, it is you who make me look weak because you are far too dangerous!" Enjo objected, flipping the coin again.

"He’s rumored to be demon, Enjo go and meet that your girl"

"I can take his right hand man instead!"

Zachary closed the book sharply and gave his cousin a withering look. "Enjo, we are not poor. We don’t need royal blood money. And this prince—this isn’t just a runaway noble. They say he’s cursed. A demon. Do you want to get caught between royal blood and court politics with your mouth?"

"Yes."

Zachary blinked.

Enjo grinned. "I mean, not with my mouth literally, but—"

"Leave my husband alone, Enjo."

The door opened again, this time with grace.

Lady Shi’Enz of Critic Arley, radiant even in her pregnancy, stepped in with the softness of a well-written poem.

Her gown was a rich mauve, fitted delicately around the swell of her stomach, her wavy chestnut hair twisted into a braid laced with golden threads.

She walked like someone who had conquered a throne or two.

Zachary’s entire demeanor shifted at her arrival—he smiled, eyes softening in a way Enjo always found nauseating.

"My love," Zachary said warmly, walking to her and pressing a kiss to her cheek, his hand automatically resting on the curve of her belly.

Enjo gagged dramatically.

"Ugh. You two make me want to drink holy water."

"You should," Shi’Enz replied sweetly. "Cleanse your rotten intentions."

"I’m just saying," Enjo stood with a stretch, "if Hound hadn’t been so annoyingly perfect and tied to someone equally terrifying, I would’ve been the favorite of this house."

"Mm," Zachary said, glancing at Shi’Enz. "Was he ever the favorite?"

Shi’Enz smiled. "He once glued flowers to a horse and tried to sell it as a unicorn."

"You said you believed in dreams!" Enjo whined.

"I said I believed in dignity."

Zachary laughed and kissed her forehead.

"I’m leaving," Enjo muttered, heading for the door. "You two go back to being disgustingly in love or whatever it is nobles do when they’re not chasing bounties."

"Don’t let the door hit you," Shi’Enz said sweetly.

"I won’t. The door likes me."

And with a playful salute, Enjo disappeared.

Zachary sighed and wrapped an arm around his wife, guiding her to the lounge by the window.

"Do you think there’s truth in the bounty rumors?" Shi’Enz asked softly, sipping from a cup of cooled lemon mint.

"I think the world is hungry for drama," Zachary replied. "And if it involves royalty, even better."

"But... if it’s true," she said, rubbing her stomach gently, "I hope that prince has someone protecting him. Because the wolves are circling."

Zachary nodded grimly.

And far away, in the quiet woods of Wyfn-Garde, those wolves were already drawing blood.