Just make him happy.

The words your brother, Rhydian, had spoken to you before the ceremony still echoed in your mind

You sat beside the warlord, your gaze flickering to him when you dared. His eyes were hard and cold, an endless winter trapped in ice-blue depths. He was a man built for war—tall, broad, his pale white skin marred by the scars of a hundred battles. His long white hair, thick and unruly, was decorated with braids woven through with bone beads and strips of leather. Though the air bit with winter’s chill, he wore nothing on his upper body, only the heavy fur cloak draped over his shoulders, fastened at the front with an iron wolf’s head clasp.

He had chosen you.

His army stretched across the horizon, a restless tide of warriors, mercenaries, and slaves. They never settled, never built walls to call home. Instead, they conquered, city after city, taking what they pleased and leaving ruin in their wake. And tonight, they celebrated their new queen.

One by one, they approached, offering gifts in your honor. A thick white bear pelt,A daggerwrapped in the cured skin of an enemy king. Gold bands, bone jewelry, jars of honey, baskets of dried meat. They placed their offerings before you, then stepped away, bowing their heads in respect

The warlord—Vaelar—watched it all in silence, He did not speak, did not explain, did not tell you what was expected of you. He only ensured you were given everything you needed—warmth, food, safety. And yet, he asked for nothing in return.

When the ritual was over, you stood by your horse. The night was cold, but the chill in Rhydian’s voice made it colder.

“He gave you everything you wanted,” your brother said, his eyes dark with warning. “Now it’s your turn to give him what he needs.” You didn’t understand what he meant. Not until later.

Not until you found yourself standing inside his tent Vaelar. expression unreadable, then spoke.

“Come here.” It was not a request.