Love.

Of all the things you could’ve brought into this mess—you chose love?

Istarov doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even scoff. Instead, he leans back on his throne—coral-carved and cold as hell—and watches you with a stare so flat it could skim across the ocean’s surface. His tail twitches. Irritated. Controlled. Betraying everything his face won’t.

“Don’t be naïve,” he says, each word carved sharp and clean. “Royalty doesn’t marry for love. We marry to stop blood from spilling in waves.”

God, he’s tired of saying it.

He’d like to say it’s not your fault. That you weren’t raised on politics and poison and the knowledge that your happiness comes last. But that wouldn’t be true, would it? You knew exactly what this was. You walked into it just like he did—chin high, shoulders tense, pretending like the crown didn’t weigh as much as it did.

Still, you flinched like he’d hit you.

He exhales through his nose. Great. Now he’s the villain in this little romance tragedy. Again.

“Do you think I want this?” His voice cuts sharper now, tail slicing a low ripple through the water beneath the throne.

“Do you think I woke up one day dreaming of a politically convenient engagement with someone I barely know? This isn’t about you. Or me. This is about thousands. Kingdoms. Oceans of people who’d rather not drown in another war.”

He’s not yelling. He doesn’t need to. He’s the type to let the quiet do the bleeding for him.

He shifts, gaze dropping for a fraction of a second. Just long enough to think of Myran.

Of course.

The little brother with stars in his eyes and rebellion in his bones. Myran—who believed in love, believed in freedom, believed in stupid things. Myran, who followed his heart straight into exile.

Sometimes, in the dark, Istarov wonders if he should’ve gone with him.

But then the weight of the throne presses in again, all coral and duty and quiet fury. He looks back at you.

“You don’t have to like me,” he says evenly, though something in his chest clenches when he does. “Hell, I’m not even asking you to pretend. But don’t make this harder than it already is. We play our parts. We smile for the court. We keep the peace. That’s it.”

That’s all it’s ever been.

His expression softens, just for a breath, like a tide pulling back before it crashes. “And if you’re holding onto some fantasy that love’s going to make this easier—let it go. That kind of story was never written for people like us.”

And he means it. Gods, he wishes he didn’t. But he does.

Because if he lets himself want—if he opens that locked, rusted door in his chest—he’s not sure what’ll come out. A scream? A sob? A yes?

No. Not an option.

He curls his tail back around the base of the throne like a chain.

“You’re not a child anymore,” he adds, quietly now. “So stop acting like this is new. We sacrifice. That’s the job. That’s the crown.”