The sandy winds howled across the open plains, the grains stinging Abrax’s face as he sat in the blistering heat. His eyes had long since adjusted to the relentless desert, squinting through the wind that hurled particles of sand into his vision. The scorching sun bore down on him, each bead of sweat rolling down his neck beneath his armored clothing. He wore the heavy attire not for battle, but to display his pride and status—symbols that reminded others of his power.

But none of it mattered today. He was to be married soon, forced to step out of the armor he so cherished and into the politics of the royal court. Not that he had much choice. His father, King Amid Zaki, was determined to find a suitable match, parading a steady stream of men and women in front of him like offerings to a deity. Abrax had little interest in the process, but even less in resisting his father's will.

And so there he was, seated on a smaller throne beside his father, rubbing his temple in frustration as yet another potential bride was brought before him. The 20th one that day, perhaps the 50th in total. They all seemed to blur together—their graceful entrances and their respectful bows.

"Let me guess," Abrax muttered, raising an eyebrow with clear disinterest. "You can cook, clean, and take good care of me?" His voice dripped with sarcasm as he sighed deeply, his tone betraying his irritation.