The carriage jolted over uneven stone, dragging Elira from restless silence.
She had lost count of how many hours they'd been on the road. The outside world was a blur of silver mist and skeletal trees, and the cold had long since sunk into her bones. Even the thick velvet of her cloak did nothing to warm her. Nothing did anymore.
She kept her gaze fixed on the window—not to admire the landscape, but to avoid the staring eyes across from her.
The advisor seated opposite hadn't stopped watching her since they crossed the border. Not speaking. Not blinking. Just observing.
As if waiting for her to crack.
But Elira had learned to bleed in silence.
She adjusted the sleeve of her ceremonial gown, stiff and embroidered with her dead house's crest. Her hair had been plaited into a crown by trembling maids before dawn. A veil lay folded beside her, untouched. She would not cover her face for him.
Not for the man they called the Devil Incarnate.
Not for anyone.
---
By nightfall, they reached the gates of Dareth.
The capital looked nothing like home. The stone was blackened with age and smoke, towers jutting like broken teeth into a blood-red sky. Soldiers in black and silver lined the path to the palace, their armor etched with a sigil that looked like a burning sun.
They did not smile. They did not bow.
The silence was worse than jeering.
A servant opened the door. "Your Highness," he said stiffly.
Elira stepped down, boots meeting foreign soil for the first time. The air smelled of ash and cold iron. It stung her lungs.
She didn't falter.
You are not a lamb, she reminded herself. You are not meat for the slaughter.
They led her through halls of onyx and steel, past guards who watched without blinking. Past paintings of faceless kings. Past tapestries depicting war, fire, and blood.
And then—they stopped.
Before a door so large and dark, it might've been carved from the night sky itself.
"He waits inside," the servant whispered, voice hollow. Then he vanished, as if fearing what lingered on the other side.
Elira stood alone.
For a moment, she did nothing. Just breathed.
Her hands were cold. Her heart, steady. Her mind screamed—but quietly. The way it always had.
Then, she pushed the door open.
---
The room was dimly lit, shadow pooling in every corner like something alive.
And at the far end, seated on a throne of iron and bone, was Kael.
The prince. The war-born. The devil she was meant to marry.
He wore no crown. No armor. Just black—simple, sharp, and impossibly tailored. A sword rested against the side of the throne, and one gloved hand drummed lazily on its hilt.
But it was his eyes that pinned her.
They were like winter storms—grey, quiet, and cruel in their stillness. He didn't rise. Didn't speak.
He just looked at her like she was already a disappointment.
"Elira of Atheren," he said at last, voice smooth and cold as polished glass. "You're smaller than I expected."
Elira lifted her chin. "And you're exactly as charming as I was warned."
A flicker. The ghost of a smile.
Then nothing.
"Let's not pretend this union means anything to either of us," he said, rising. He was tall—too tall—and moved like a shadow slipping from the wall. "We do what's required. You wear the ring. I sign the treaty. Our fathers pretend we've mended centuries of hatred."
He stepped closer.
"Just don't mistake this arrangement for safety."
Elira didn't flinch. "And don't mistake me for a girl who scares easy."
Their eyes locked.
The air between them cracked—silent and sharp and electric.
And for the first time, something almost like interest sparked in his gaze.
"Good," Kael murmured. "Then we won't waste time."
---
He turned away.
And she let herself breathe again.
The door slammed shut behind her, and Elira knew three things with violent certainty:
1. She was alone here.
2. No one would save her.
3. And Kael—the devil incarnate—was already plotting his next move.
Let the war begin.