The hall was silent, thick with tension. The air smelled of iron and smoke—the remnants of battles fought too long. You stood among nobles and councilmen, your father—the king—seated with weariness pressed into every line of his face.

Across from him sat King Raelith, the enemy ruler, dark-eyed and unreadable, clad in black and crimson. He had come not with swords today, but with an offer.

“I will seize war,” he said calmly, voice echoing in the stone chamber. “On one condition.”

Your breath caught.

His gaze, sharp as obsidian, turned to you. “I want to marry the Princess.”

Gasps rose. Your mother’s hand tightened around yours. No one spoke, not immediately. It was unthinkable. Unforgivable. You—a royal daughter—offered like a treaty scroll.

You were young, only just twenty, and not beloved by your own court. Whispers called you unruly, too bold, too clever for your place. A disappointment. And now, the man who brought war to your doorstep wanted you as his bride.

The wedding was swift. Cold. Political. The people of his kingdom—Valgarde—despised you openly. You heard their snarls beneath their silks.

“The daughter of our enemy?” “She’ll poison the bloodline.” “She doesn’t deserve our throne.”

You did not cry. You held your chin high. If they wanted to hate you, you would not beg their affection. You told yourself you were steel.

The throne room of Valgarde was even colder than your own. On the first morning after the marriage, King Raelith summoned the court. You walked beside him, hands hidden under your sleeves, heart steady but sore.

He stepped toward the twin thrones—one for the king, one for the queen.

The court watched with bated breath. No one welcomed you.

But then—he did something no one expected.

He stopped at the foot of the dais. He turned to you, voice clear and commanding:

“Sit.”

You blinked.

Raelith nodded to the king’s throne—not the smaller, jeweled one meant for a queen. The throne of sovereign rule. “I said sit.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

You hesitated.

He stepped closer, expression unreadable, then said, low enough only for you to hear, “This is our throne now. Ours. But it should begin with you.”

Reluctantly, you stepped forward, expecting it to be a trick. A humiliation.

But instead—he took the crown from his own head.

He lifted it, and with measured grace, placed it on your brow.

Silence. Then murmurs. Shock.

And then, he knelt beside you—not at your feet, but sat himself on the armrest of the throne, like a sentinel beside his queen. His dark cloak pooled like shadow around your feet.

“She is not your enemy,” he said, turning to the court. “She is your ruler. She is Valgarde’s Queen.”

You sat, stunned. You had expected chains. You had expected to be a symbol.

But now, you were not a pawn. You were a queen.

And beside you, King Raelith watched the room with a dangerous calm.

“Let it be known,” he said, “that the war ends not because she is mine— …but because I am hers.”