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Lord Theodore's Favorite Ritual

"I have waited for you in all of my lives, Gooseberry, and in all of them you had left. Please stay in this one," he pleaded, his eyes locked with hers. "I wish to stay too, My Lord Husband, because you are forever, Theodore," she whispered, tears glistening in her eyes. In a world where Lydia Statham, an illegitimate girl shunned as an abomination, is confined to her noble-born family’s estate, her only escape comes through books and stories of the outside world. But destiny intervenes when she receives an invitation to a bridal pick banquet at one of Critic Arley’s grandest mansions. What was supposed to be a chance for a new beginning soon becomes a solitary encounter with Lord Theodore, a feared outcast and enemy of the Empire. Lord Theodore, of royal blood but without a surname, has never desired a wife, and the idea of cohabiting with a woman seems unfathomable. Yet, at the banquet thrown by Conan, where every young lady was invited, only Lydia appears. Now, Theodore must confront his deepest reservations as he navigates the ritualistic demands and unearths feelings he never anticipated. In a tale of forbidden desires and unspoken promises, every season, every day, and forever, Theodore's life will revolve around the ritual that is Lydia—his chosen, his fate. No one came but her. His Gooseberry. ************** "Call me Lordess Theodore" "I am Lordess Theodore and I am his favourite ritual" Dear Critic. Do you wish to https://buymeacoffee.com/nanafirdausi Discourse with me on discord @i_nanafirdausi Cover photo is mine.

I_Nana_Firdausi · Kỳ huyễn
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294 Chs

The Twins.

Morning.

Theodore Mansion.

Critic Arley, Critic-Ishire.

***************

"Tommy Tom, what happened to you?" Gabriel taunted as he watched his brother's battered body from the last fight.

"I was a hero," he said with a grin.

In the soft light of dawn, the mansion field was a picture of serenity, bathed in the gentle hues of the rising sun.

Tom and Gabriel the two identical black twin boys of the mansion, dressed in training attires stood facing each other, their swords in hand, their movements fluid and precise as they began to spar that morning.

Their footsteps echoed softly on the dew-kissed grass as they circled each other, their blades glinting in the early morning light.

Their eyes and brows communicated more than their words did.

With each strike and parry, they moved with a grace born of years of practice and discipline, their movements a seamless dance of steel and muscle.