The wind tasted like salt and smoke as the carriage creaked over the final hill.
Princess Amara watched through the small, clouded window as the coastline disappeared behind them. Waves crashed violently below the cliffs, and the sun hung low over the horizon, bleeding orange and gold into the sky. Somewhere behind those waters was Durelith—her home.
She hadn't cried.
Not when her mother brushed her hair that morning in silence.
Not when her younger sister squeezed her hand at the docks.
Not when the sails dropped and the soldiers bowed, saying, "May the gods grant you strength."
Because crying wouldn't change what she was.
A bride. A bargaining chip. A peace treaty sewn into silk and skin.
Her hands rested in her lap, clenched so tightly her knuckles were white. Across from her sat Lord Severan, the king's advisor, a man with a hawk's nose and a tongue sharper than any sword. He hadn't spoken in the last hour, but Amara knew the words were coming. They always did.
As the carriage rolled to a stop, he cleared his throat.
"Your Highness," he began, voice smooth and practiced, "before you step out, I must remind you once more: you are no longer of Durelith. From this day on, you are Princess of Virelle, and soon—Queen. Every word you speak, every gesture, every breath you take—will echo through this kingdom. You are to be quiet. Respectful. Graceful. Do not test Prince Kael."
Amara looked at him, her dark eyes unreadable. "What if he tests me first?"
Lord Severan blinked. For a moment, he had no reply.
The door opened before he could form one.
The Kingdom of Virelle was colder than Durelith, its skies steel-colored and heavy with clouds. The palace itself loomed like a beast—black stone, sharp spires, guards in silver and charcoal, and courtyards carved from dark marble. It was stunning in a harsh, almost cruel way.
No cheering crowds welcomed her.
No flowers. No fanfare.
Just rows of soldiers, advisors, and noble lords standing like statues as she descended from the carriage.
At the top of the palace steps stood Prince Kael.
He was taller than she'd expected. Broad-shouldered. Clean-cut, but battle-worn. His black uniform was unadorned, except for the silver dragon sigil across his chest. His arms were crossed, expression unreadable.
He did not bow.
Amara walked forward anyway, each step echoing like a war drum. Her gown—deep navy trimmed in silver—dragged behind her like spilled ink on stone. She held her chin high, heart thrumming like a trapped bird.
As she reached the final step, she extended her hand.
Kael looked at it. Then at her. Then back at the gathered court.
He took her hand briefly. No words. No smile. Just a firm grip, cold as the air between the
So this was her future.
The grand hall was colder still.
Paintings of past kings loomed overhead, their gazes hollow. Fireplaces burned, but the chill lingered in the air. Amara followed Kael down a corridor lined with silent nobles. Whispers followed behind her like shadows.
They didn't speak until they reached a smaller chamber, the receiving room. Finally, Kael turned to her.
"You can take off the mask now."
Amara met his eyes. "I'm not wearing one."
That surprised him.
A flicker of something passed over his face—curiosity, maybe.
Then it vanished.
"You're here because our fathers value peace more than freedom," he said plainly. "Let's not pretend we're something we're not."
"I wasn't planning to," she replied. "Believe it or not, I didn't dream of marrying a man who can't even fake politeness for five minutes."
Kael smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes. "We'll get along just fine, then. As long as you remember your place."
"And what place is that?"
His voice lowered. "By my side, in public. Out of my way, in private."
Amara's nails dug into her palm, but she only smiled sweetly. "Then you stay out of my way too, Your Highness."
She turned before he could respond.
And for the first time, Kael looked like someone had caught him off guard.
Later that evening, after being shown to her private wing of the palace, Amara finally exhaled.
The servants had lit candles and drawn a bath. The fire crackled low, and a tray of food she had no appetite for sat untouched by the window.
She stood by the balcony, arms wrapped around herself.
She couldn't see Durelith from here—but she could feel it. In the ache behind her ribs. In the anger that simmered just beneath her skin.
This wasn't just a marriage.
This was surrender.
And yet… she wasn't done fighting.
Not yet.
Somewhere beyond the palace walls, in a forgotten corridor shadowed by cold stone and older secrets, a man watched the ballroom through the crack of a door.
Lioran—the bastard son of the King—stood still, silent as a shadow. His dark hair was damp from the rain, his cloak heavy with travel. He hadn't even been officially summoned yet. No one knew he had returned to Virelle.
Except the King.
And Kael.
And now… her.
Lioran had seen the look in her eyes when she stepped out of the carriage.
Not fear.
Not pride.
Fire.
He hadn't expected that.And fire like that could burn down kingdoms.