webnovel

Sustaining the King's Life

COMPLETED. (WARNING: R18 on chapter 200+ onwards. This is a SLOW BURN ROMANCE. Read at your own risk.) ** On a secluded mountain situated upon a kingdom known as Feuersturm, resides a seemingly trifling cabin with an unlikely duo as its inhabitant—a witch, and her apprentice who presumably comes from a clan sought after by slave traders. Faustina is a sixteen-year-old girl who fled the slave market with the help of a sickly witch named Eula, who later on trained her as an apprentice for the span of seven years. Plagued with a mysterious disease for several years, Eula died despite the efforts Faustina had exerted to cure her; in her last breath, she left an odd request behind. "Sustain the king's life. This is your duty. Do not adhere to the prophecy." To which the odd plea shadowed a bizarre series of events, a consequential sentence; similar to that of a premonition. The same night the phrase was muttered, the chain of events followed: A warlock's intrusion to their home, with a peculiar yearning to resurrect Eula from the dead... and the king himself, asking for Faustina’s aid.

Chainslock · Fantasy
Not enough ratings
284 Chs

Mock Level?!

Faustina slowly backed away from her very reflection. Was her cover blown? How is she going to investigate, at this rate? How can the questions in her mind be answered—just how—

"Lady Feuerlon?"

Faustina blinked, turning to her side. One of the examiners had just approached her.

"Are you alright?"

Faustina blinked, "y-yes?"

Faustina's eyes darted to the mirror. Her glamour was back now; her ash-grey hair and Magierstadt uniform were visible in the mirror.

"You look pale,"

"I-I'm quite alright . . . just . . . nervous," Faustina answered.

The girl smiled at her. "Oh. I see. Uhm, I'm Chastity by the way. I'm the daughter of Viscount Beverly."

Faustina tilted her head. "Nice to meet you," it was quite an odd introduction. Usually, nobles would introduce themselves into a graceful manner. But then again, they were in a dungeon. Manners would not matter. (Or would it?)