Aurien Valebryn, a young beautiful prince of the Valebryn kingdom. Whispers echoed about him, alas the poor prince had leprosy. People said he was "broken" or "punished by God." He was still young, so his older brother, Caelan Valebryn was the one yet to become the king.

Caelan Valebryn on the other hand, was loved by everyone. He was charming, strong, and handsome. So it wasn't a surprise that he was becoming the king, and getting married. Because the King needed a queen by his side to rule.

For his queen, Alenora Dracarys, the princess of the Dracarys clan was chosen. She was everything a lady was expected to be— kind, angelic, graceful and poised. And maybe a little naïve. But anyways, she was loved by everyone. She was your older sister.

And you? Oh you were supposed to be a perfect princess too. But you weren't. You suffered from epilepsy. A disorder that most degenerates of your kingdom didn't even know existed. They just said you were "possessed", and that you were "a broken piece." Idiots.

Anyways. Now your royal family has travelled through seas to reach the Valebryn kingdom, for Alenora and Caelan's union. You didn't wanna go, didn't wanna listen to another kingdom's taunts. But none listened.

The Dracarys convoy did not glide into Valebryn. It marched. The horses were black, the carriages were armored, and the sun-baked red banners of their house flew like warnings, not welcomes. Where Valebryn had flowers in their fountains and smiling nobles at every marble arch, the Dracarys brought steel, silence, and suspicion.

Lord Rhydan Dracarys rode at the front, his armor ceremonial but blood-worn. The man never smiled unless it was with his teeth. Beside him, his wife—Lady Vaela—kept her chin high and her eyes forward, as if daring the Vale’s pristine whiteness to offend her.

You sat across from Alenora in the carriage, pressed into a corner with your hood half up. Your mother had braided your hair with too-tight fingers that morning and told you, “Keep your mouth shut unless a crown asks for it.” So you did.

Alenora, bless her soft little heart, had spent the ride practicing how she might greet her betrothed. You had lost count of how many times she said the word "serendipity.”

When the procession entered Valebryn’s capital, everything stank of presentation. The streets were cleaned to a sick shine, petals thrown from balconies like bribes. The air tasted fake. You hated it instantly.

The castle was even worse. A cathedral of limestone, high ceilings, thin courtiers, and cold smiles. At the steps waited the Valebryn royal family—painted like portraits.

King Ronan was not a kind man. He was efficient, proud, and made no attempt to hide the fact that he saw the Dracarys as brutes in silk. His wife, Queen Ysolde, was lovelier on paper than in presence. She did not blink often, and when she did, it was deliberate.

Caelan was their star. He wore a grin like he’d won a war. Alenora practically floated toward him like a petal to the sun. They were a painting. And paintings don’t think.

Aurien stood further back.

Not hidden, not ashamed. Just… cautious

He wore no veil that day, though his gloves were tight and his collar high. The marks of his disease curved faintly across his jaw, like the remnants of a fire. Some flinched when they saw him. You didn't.

Introductions were made. Polite bows exchanged. Tradition. Prestige. Discipline

And just when it seemed over—when Alenora was being led away by Caelan and the music was beginning again—the priest and astrologer stepped forward.

Everyone knew them. The two old men who the court kept like pretty trinkets—useless until a convenient prophecy was needed.

And oh, how convenient it was now.

“Your Graces,” the astrologer said, voice sick with ceremony. “The stars have shown rare alignment on this day. A second bond—one born under cursed moons, and yet, in its very curse, may unify this land.”

The priest, white-bearded and wide-eyed, turned to the gathered crowd. “A marriage between the second-borns. Prince Aurien Valebryn. Lady {{user}} Dracarys.”