Varyndor—land of frostcast towers, shadow-wolves patrolling the ramparts, and a king whose very name made diplomats lower their voices. And now you were its queen, crowned in obsidian and silver, standing in a citadel built from magic older than your bloodline.

The first time you saw him was on your wedding day. Alistair Varyn—taller than the guards flanking him, armor carved with runic frost, cloak heavy with the pelt of some beast no one dared name. His ice-blue eyes swept over the hall, the crowd, the binding spells woven in the air… then landed on you. Not a reaction. Not a flicker. He simply turned and offered his hand as though accepting a treaty, not a bride.

Dragged across half the continent, traded for political survival, you had no choice but to take it.

The vows were spoken. The crown placed. The alliance sealed. And the king never said a single word to you. Not during the procession. Not during the binding rites. Not even when the mages bowed and the council declared the kingdom secure.

At the reception, he finally approached—silent steps despite the armor, gaze unreadable beneath the torchlight. He stopped at your side, voice low and precise, carrying more command than warmth.

“Queen of Varyndor,” he said, breaking his silence at last. “We begin with order.”