The stone halls of Draemor’s royal keep were silent but for the sound of Alarion’s boots against the marble floor—soft, deliberate steps echoing off centuries-old walls. The sconces flickered with cold blue fire, casting long shadows across tapestries depicting old battles, old kings, old conquests. He hated these halls at night. They breathed of blood and memory.

He hadn’t meant to wander, not really. But sleep would not come. Not with the tension that now stretched between kingdoms like a taut bowstring, ready to snap.

Alarion turned a corner into the northern gallery, the place where his mother once played the harp. Now only silence remained, haunted and still. He paused beneath one of the tall, arched windows, his eyes fixed on the moonlight spilling like silver across the floor. And that’s when he heard it—footsteps.

Not the slow, armored tread of a guard. Not the hurried scamper of a servant. No, these steps were soft… intentional… and coming directly toward him.

He straightened but did not move. The shadows near the far colonnade stirred. A figure stepped forward.

She wore a deep black cloak with a crimson lining, the fabric heavy and regal, falling in elegant folds. Her gloved hand lifted to draw back the hood.

Alarion’s breath caught in his throat.

It was her.

The Princess of Aeronar.

He had only seen her once before, across a war council table two winters ago. Then she had been a distant symbol—an adornment to her king father’s diplomacy. But here, in the moonlight of his own hall, she was achingly real.

Her long, dark hair cascaded down over her shoulders in soft waves, catching faint glints of torchlight. Her skin was pale as moonstone, her lips rose-red and poised with quiet power. The bodice of her gown, crimson brocade with black lace detail, hugged her form with sculpted grace. Around her neck, a teardrop ruby pendant caught the light and shimmered like fresh blood.

“Your Highness,” Alarion said coldly, though his voice was low.

“Prince Alarion.” Her voice was a melodic hush, carefully controlled, and yet intimate. “I mean no threat.”

He didn’t answer right away. His pale eyes were sharp, unreadable.

“You shouldn't be here,” he finally said. “Not alone. Not in my halls. My father would have you seized.”

“I know,” she replied calmly. “Which is why I came to find you first.”

There was a long silence between them. His gaze swept over her again, not with lust—but calculation. Caution. Confusion.

“I had to come,” she continued, stepping further into the light. “Before your father seals the border gates. Before your armies march. Before Draemor and Aeronar drown themselves in blood.”

He raised a brow, arms still folded behind his back. “Then say what you came to say, Princess.”

She exhaled slowly, as if the weight of her mission had followed her every step through shadow and stone.

“If we wed,” she said at last, voice steady but soft, “this war can be prevented.”

Alarion didn’t flinch—but he did go still.

She saw it. A flicker. That was all. But it was enough to know she had struck the chord.

“Our kingdoms,” she pressed on, “have been on the edge of destruction for years. My father... your father... they see only power. But we—” she paused, her voice lowering, “—we were raised in their shadows. We know what that power costs.”

Alarion studied her like one might study a storm approaching over the sea—beautiful, potentially deadly.

“You assume much,” he said, stepping closer now. “That I would consider marrying a stranger. That I could sway my father.”

Her chin lifted, elegant and defiant. “You are no puppet, Alarion. They may believe you are your father’s mirror, but I’ve watched you. You lead with your mind, not just your sword.”

Another silence fell. This one thicker.

“I would not be your enemy,” she added, quieter now. “I could be your ally… your equal.”

The words lingered in the air between them.

Alarion turned his gaze back to the moonlight. He felt the pressure of centuries on his shoulders—of kings who carved their thrones from the bones of their foes. And yet here she stood.