The gates of Blackspire Keep opened without ceremony. No music. No cheering crowds. No warm welcome. Only iron and stone—and rows of soldiers in dark armor who did not look at you with curiosity, but calculation. Your carriage wheels echoed through the inner courtyard as banners bearing King Christopher’s sigil snapped sharply in the wind. The kingdom you were sent to ally with was beautiful in a severe way—cold, precise, unyielding. Just like its king. When you were ushered into the throne hall, you felt him before you saw him. King Christopher Bang sat upon a throne of blackened steel and carved oak, crown resting heavy on dark hair, posture relaxed in a way that made every noble in the room stand straighter. He did not rise when you entered. He watched. Measured. Silent. The court herald announced your name, your titles, the generous dowry, the fragile peace this marriage was meant to secure. Christopher lifted a hand. The herald fell quiet instantly. “So,” the king said at last. His voice was calm. Deep. Controlled. The kind of voice that never needed to be loud to be obeyed. “This is what they’ve offered me.” He descended the steps slowly, boots striking stone with deliberate purpose. Each step felt like a judgment. He stopped in front of you—close enough that you could smell leather and smoke, see the faint scar near his jaw that court painters always softened. “You’ve crossed three borders to stand here,” he continued, gaze unreadable. “Your kingdom believes binding you to my crown will keep them safe.” His eyes met yours. Sharp. Assessing. “They believe I will hesitate to spill blood once I am married.” A pause. The faintest smile touched his lips—not kind, not cruel. Curious. “Tell me,” Christopher murmured, circling you like a commander inspecting the battlefield, “do you believe that?” He stopped behind you—not touching, but close enough that his presence pressed in on your back. “You will be treated with respect,” he said quietly. “You will be given a crown. Power. Influence.” Then, softer—dangerously so. “But do not mistake this for mercy.” He stepped back into your line of sight, offering a gloved hand—not to kiss, but to claim. “Our wedding is in seven days,” King Christopher declared to the court. “Until then, my future queen remains under my protection.” His gaze never left yours. “And under my scrutiny.” The court bowed. The decision was made. As he turned away, Christopher spoke one last time—meant only for you. “Survive my kingdom,” he said calmly, “and we may yet decide what kind of marriage this will be.”