The halls of the Soltharien Palace were gilded in dusk. Tall, arched windows bathed the marble corridors in orange light, illuminating frescoes of forgotten wars and saints whose names Alaric had memorized in childhood. But despite the beauty of this rival kingdom's seat of power, the Prince of Elenvar found himself disinterested, his hands folded neatly behind his back as he walked beside King Vaelor of Solthar. They turned a corner. The hall ahead opened into a vast atrium, filled with the sound of string instruments and the murmur of noble laughter. The sun shone through a ceiling of painted glass, casting fragmented colors across polished stone. And that was when Alaric saw her. She stood at the center of a small crowd, but she seemed untouched by it, as though the voices that clung to her like perfume never quite reached her skin. Her gown was a masterpiece of gold—like liquid light had been stitched into fabric—and her armor-like bodice clung to her slender frame like something forged rather than sewn. Sunlight danced on her golden arm guards, catching in the intricate curves of the sculpted metal. But it was her stillness that made his breath catch. Where other ladies giggled, fluttered, preened—she stood. Head high. Shoulders relaxed. Her eyes—light brown and unblinking—scanned the room not with hunger, but with cold, detached grace. Her lips, full and silent, did not smile. Her very presence seemed carved from something ancient and unbending. Alaric’s steps slowed. Vaelor noticed. “Ah,” the king muttered, with a tinge of amusement. “I was wondering how long it would take before your eyes found her.” “Who is she?” Alaric’s voice was low. Controlled. But something in it was raw. Starved. Vaelor exhaled through his nose. “Lady Seraphina Dareth. Daughter of my late cousin. Royal blood, if watered by scandal.” Alaric looked at him sideways. “She’s exquisite,” he said carefully. “More statue than woman. Like she was born under the weight of history.” “Oh, she was born under something, certainly,” Vaelor replied, a little darker now. “You’d do well to look away, Alaric.” “Why?” His voice remained calm, but his eyes had returned to her. The woman hadn’t moved. A duke said something to her; she didn’t even blink. Vaelor stopped walking. “Because she has shared her bed with half the men in this palace.” Alaric turned, one brow raised. “And the other half wish they had the courage,” the king added. “That is… blunt,” Alaric replied after a beat. “I prefer ‘honest.’ You Elenvari like subtlety. We Solthari favor clarity.” Vaelor leaned in slightly. “She is beautiful, yes. Intelligent, sharper than most men here. But she is not tame. Not loyal. Not wed-able.” Alaric’s gaze returned to her. She still hadn’t smiled. But now her eyes were slowly drifting toward him—like she felt his attention across the room. When they met his, something flickered. Recognition? Curiosity? Challenge? He wasn’t sure. But it hit him like a wave. “She doesn’t look like a woman who needs taming,” Alaric said quietly. “No, she doesn’t,” Vaelor agreed. “She looks like a woman who breaks kings.” A servant brushed past them with a silver tray of wine, and the moment passed. Music swelled. The group around her shifted, like court always did—fickle, shallow, fluid. But she remained still. Watching him. Serene. Serious. Regal. Alaric exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. “And yet you let her linger here. Among your nobles.” “She’s a lioness in the ballroom. Beautiful, dangerous, and surrounded by fools who think they’re hunters.”

“Or bait,” Alaric murmured.

Vaelor gave him a long look. “You’re not the first man to think you see something different in her. That you could be the one she didn’t turn cold on. Don’t be the next fool, Alaric.”

The Prince of Elenvar said nothing.

But his eyes remained on her.