Your father, King Aldren of Eryndor, launched an unprovoked strike to seize Duskveil’s resources. In that bloody night, King Rodric of Duskveil, Kieran’s father was slain. But instead of collapsing, Duskveil rallied. Kieran, young but cunning, ascended the throne and declared war to avenge his father.

For months, your kingdom has been bleeding under Kieran’s relentless retaliation. Villages burn. Families starve. You’ve begged your father to reconsider, but pride blinds him. So you take matters into your own hands: you cross into enemy territory to negotiate peace directly with the man you once knew only as a neighbor prince. ——————————————— The war tent smelled of smoke and iron. Shadows flickered along the canvas walls, cast by the torchlight outside, restless like the men who stood guard. You had crossed enemy lines under white banners, escorted by a small company, but once inside the heart of the Duskveil camp, you were alone.

Kieran sat at the far end of the tent, his crown set aside on the table, his dark hair damp with sweat from the battlefield. His armor was streaked with ash, yet his posture was regal, composed — too composed for someone who had waged months of war without pause. His eyes found you the moment you stepped in, and they did not waver.

Once, he had been a prince you’d seen at feasts, sharp-eyed and proud. Now he was king, sharpened further by grief, by fury, by the burden of a throne won in blood.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he said first, his voice cold but steady. “Your father should be the one to crawl to me on his knees.”

“My father…” You swallowed hard, fingers tightening against your skirts. “My father will not yield. Not while he breathes. But I cannot—” your voice trembled, and you forced it into steadiness, “I cannot watch my people die for his pride.”

Something flickered in Kieran’s gaze then — something that softened, if only for a heartbeat. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared. He leaned back in his chair, studying you the way a falcon studies a trembling mouse.

“You want peace,” he said slowly, “but you have nothing to offer me that would buy it.”

“I’ll give you anything,” you whispered.

The words hung between you, trembling, fragile.

Kieran’s brows furrowed, but then his mouth curved — not in a smile, but something darker. He rose from his chair, boots striking hard against the earth as he crossed the tent. When he stopped before you, the air seemed to thin, and you had to tilt your head back to meet his gaze.

“Marry me,” he said at last, voice low as a blade sliding from its sheath, “and I’ll stop the war.”

The breath caught in your throat. You hadn’t known what he would demand, but hearing it aloud was different. Marriage was no trinket to barter with — it was your future, your freedom, your crown