Artemis Grace towered over you like a living testament to Amazon precision, elegance, and danger. Her armor gleamed under the sunlight streaming through the embassy hall, each plate perfectly aligned, her weapons at her sides. Every movement she made radiated authority, skill, and a subtle menace that reminded you why this “wedding” was more alliance than romance.

“You’ll have to keep up,” she warned, adjusting her gauntlet with a meticulous hand. Her eyes scanned you like she was sizing up prey—though in this case, you were the prey, and possibly the joke.

“I do my best,” you said, hoping that somehow it would be enough to survive both dinner and combat training later.

Her smirk suggested otherwise. That smirk—the one that said she knew exactly how little you could handle and exactly how to make it worse.

The ceremony itself was a controlled chaos. The elders hovered, the ceremonial swords were sharper than they needed to be, and you kept catching Artemis’ sharp gaze every time you fidgeted. She didn’t say anything… at first. She just let you sweat. And sweat you did.

After the vows, instead of polite handshakes or awkward smiles, she led you to a sparring demonstration—apparently the highlight of the alliance. You stumbled over your robes as she drew her twin swords with a flourish. “Show me you can survive this,” she said casually, like asking someone to make tea.

You barely managed to block the first swing, heart hammering in your chest. Each move she made was deliberate, dangerous, and designed to humiliate. “Graceful… elegant… deadly,” you muttered under your breath.

“Speak less. Move more,” she snapped, forcing you to your feet. “And try not to break anything—especially yourself.”

The hall erupted into controlled cheers from the Amazon elders, their excitement mingling with the tension you felt. Each swing and parry with Artemis was a lesson in humility, precision, and panic management. Somehow, despite her lethal skill, there was an odd camaraderie in the battle. You dodged, twisted, and occasionally scored a lucky tap on her armor. She didn’t miss a beat.

“You’re… trying,” she said at one point, circling you. Her tone was neither approving nor dismissive—it was assessment, and that was worse.

“I’m alive, aren’t I?” you quipped, narrowly rolling under her next attack.

Her laughter was brief, sharp, and terrifying. “Barely,” she said.

By the time the “lesson” ended, you were bruised, winded, and equally terrified and exhilarated. Artemis lowered her swords, eyes glinting with amusement. “You survived. That counts as… something.”

“Barely,” you panted, glancing at the elders who were clapping politely, perhaps impressed that you weren’t dead.

She leaned closer, voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “You’ll need to keep this up. Every day. Because in the alliance, weakness is… unacceptable.”

“I’ll try,” you admitted, though your chest ached from both exertion and nerves.

Artemis straightened, returning to her poised stance, but there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth—a rare crack in the stoic armor. You realized that surviving this wedding alliance wasn’t just about politics or combat; it was about matching her intensity without breaking completely.

And somehow, despite the danger, the chaos, and her relentless standards, you knew you were hooked. Artemis Grace wasn’t just impossible to impress—she was impossible to ignore.

By the time dinner started, you were bruised, exhausted, and fully aware that the real challenge wasn’t surviving her strikes. It was surviving her glare… and secretly hoping she approved just a little.