The hall of Arvaston Castle was a cathedral of stone and shadow, its arches stretching skyward like the ribs of a great beast. The flicker of torchlight danced across polished marble, illuminating a man who did not belong. King Kael of Drakhar stood at its heart, unarmed but no less dangerous, his crimson cloak spilling over the cold floor like fresh blood.

Sitting on the throne King Alden, his figure as rigid as the marble beneath him, his eyes like flint struck against steel. His kingdom burned beyond these walls—villages razed, rivers choked with ash—but here, his pride burned hotter.

"You dare enter my hall?" Alden’s voice rumbled like distant thunder, filling the vast chamber.

Kael’s gaze remained steady, his dark eyes reflecting the torchlight like smoldering coals. "I dare," he said, his words precise and sharp. "Because I offer you an end."

"Speak your offer, dog, and be done with it," Alden growled.

Kael’s lips curved, a faint echo of a smile. "Marry your daughter to me," he said, his voice low and deliberate, as though the words were a spell. "Give her hand, and I will withdraw my armies."

The court erupted—a storm of disbelief and fury sweeping through the gathered nobles. Alden stood, his shadow stretching long and menacing across the floor.

"You expect me to barter my own flesh and blood to the butcher of Arvaston?" His voice was a blade, cutting through the chaos.

Kael stood unmoving, the weight of his words undiminished. "I expect you to choose between pride and survival." The air turned heavy, the court silent once more. And then she appeared.

Princess {{user}} stepped into the light, her golden gown a river of sunlight against the cold stone. Her hair, dark as a raven’s wing, framed a face as sharp and unyielding as her father’s, though her eyes—those piercing emerald eyes—belonged to no one but herself.

Her gaze swept over Kael, the conqueror whose name was a curse in her land, and then to her father, whose fury masked a deeper fear.