I Got Married to a Yandere Queen

In an instant, Daxon moved.

His powerful hand clamped down on Riven's right wrist and, with a cold, unflinching motion, twisted it the opposite way.

Crack.

The sound of breaking bone echoed faintly but clearly in the silent room.

Riven held his breath, his jaw clenched so tight that his teeth scraped together. His eyes widened, and his entire body trembled. The tip of the bone pierced through the skin of his wrist, blood spilling freely and warming his cold flesh. His muscles twisted, his fingers lost control, and the knife he had gripped fell to the floor with a soft clink.

The pain was overwhelming, as if fire had ignited inside his bones, but Riven didn't scream. He bit down hard on his tongue, swallowing the cry that clawed at his throat. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes, not from weakness, but from the sheer agony that pushed his body to the edge.

Yet even through that pain, his mind remained sharp.

His left hand was already moving.

And in that moment, as Daxon focused on crushing his right wrist, Riven swung his left—fast, sudden, aimed with deadly precision.

A clean slice.

The hidden blade he had kept from the beginning slid into the side of Daxon's neck, just beneath the jaw, plunging deep toward the artery.

Hot blood burst forth, its metallic scent flooding the room. It sprayed across Riven's face and chest. Daxon froze, his expression locked in total shock. His eyes bulged, his entire body stiffening as if struck by lightning. For a second, he seemed petrified, unable to believe what had just happened.

Then slowly, his grip loosened. His hand slipped from Riven's wrist.

Blood poured steadily from the wound in his neck, soaking the mattress in red.

He didn't move again.

The proud nobleman, the head of the Blackthorn family, Daxon Blackthorn, was dead—killed by a nameless commoner.

Riven stood still, his body trembling.

His left hand was still clenched around the blood-soaked knife. His right wrist was mangled beyond recognition, throbbing with searing pain.

His breathing was ragged. His eyes stayed fixed on the corpse.

One was dead.

One more remained.

And after that... Mira would be free.

Riven exhaled, a breath he had been holding since he entered the room. The night air filled his lungs, but it couldn't cool the burning pain that gripped his body. He stared down at the lifeless body, then slowly lowered his gaze and pulled the blade free from Daxon's neck. Blood dripped from the edge like tears from a wound that would never heal.

He stepped back and leaned against the side of the bed, his body sinking as though the strength within him had drained out with the man's final breath. With his left hand, he cradled his destroyed right wrist. The bone felt shattered in multiple places. The skin around it had turned dark and bruised, torn and swollen badly.

"Damn it..." he cursed silently, his face contorting with pain that stabbed like poisoned needles. He shut his eyes for a moment, forcing his mind to calm itself from the shock of what had just happened.

That had been close.

Far too close.

If he had hesitated even for a fraction of a second, or if his reflexes had been any slower, his body would be the one lying lifeless on the floor now. Not the other way around.

Riven stared at Daxon's corpse, now still and cold. With a single glance, he understood that this man hadn't been ordinary. There had been a weight to him, a quiet power hidden deep within. He recognized it—a Lawbearer. Possibly at the level of a Marked Soul, or even a Runed Core.

That explained everything. His movements, his instincts, the way his eyes had opened in a flash the moment danger approached. Even though Riven had moved like a shadow without a sound.

The memory sent a chill through his chest.

He recalled his fight with the Arkham infiltrator—the man who, despite being on the verge of death, had nearly killed him. That same pressure in the air, that same suffocating aura, was what he felt now standing this close to Daxon Blackthorn.

If they had fought face-to-face under normal conditions... he wouldn't have stood a chance. No matter how fast, no matter how clever, he would have lost.

Without tricks. Without strategy. Without the element of surprise.

He would have died.

And Mira would never have been saved.

That thought made his fingers dig into the wound on his wrist, pain flaring up like a whip to remind him he was still alive.

He opened his eyes.

Now wasn't the time for reflection.

One more remained.

Darien—the young noble who had tortured him. Who had dared to think such vile things about his sister.

Riven raised his head, eyes locking onto the bedroom door.

His body was broken. His spirit torn.

But his gaze...

His gaze still burned with a cold determination that could not be extinguished.

With slow, nearly silent steps, Riven moved down the dark hallway, lit only by the dim moonlight seeping through cracks in the walls. His body felt heavier with every step, but his will never wavered.

Before leaving Daxon's room, he had ripped a strip of fabric from the old curtain by the window. With one hand, he wrapped it tightly around his right wrist. When he forced the bones back into place and tied it firmly, the pain nearly made him scream. But he only gritted his teeth, groaning silently. There was no room for weakness.

Now his right hand was useless. His fingers numb, his palm ice cold. Every tiny movement sent sharp jolts of pain through him. But he still had one hand left—and that was enough to finish what he had started.

He continued forward, carefully navigating the hallway. He stopped at one of the doors and reached for the handle with his left hand. Locked. He bent down slightly, peeking through the narrow space between the door and its frame.

His eyes widened.

Inside, Mira lay sleeping on a small bed. The soft light of an oil lamp lit her face, calm and untroubled. Her breathing was steady. There were no wounds. No ropes.

Riven let out a slow breath. For the first time, he felt a slight weight lift from his chest. Layers of pressure peeled away at the sight of his sister unharmed.

But it wasn't over yet. They weren't free.

And before they could escape, one last thing had to be done.

He moved down the hall again, approaching the next door. His left hand still gripped the kitchen knife he had taken earlier. The blade remained cold and sharp.

The last door wasn't locked. He pushed it open carefully, making sure the hinges didn't squeak.

The room was dark, but he could clearly see the sleeping figure inside—Darien Blackthorn.

The young noble's face looked peaceful in sleep. But to Riven, that face was a symbol of suffering, humiliation, and rage. Below his right eye, a fresh bandage still covered the bite mark left from earlier.

Riven stood at the doorway, his eyes locked on the man who had tortured him. Who had dared to think foul thoughts about his sister. The knife in his hand trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the strain in his woun

ded body.

In silence, he stepped inside.

Every footstep was a choice.

And tonight, that choice would spill blood.