"So I come back from battle bloodied and beaten, and you expect me to marry some person I've never met?"

The words fell sharp from Commander Gareth Blackwood's lips as he followed the prince through Starfall Palace's grand halls. Dried blood still caked beneath his fingernails. His armor bore fresh dents from axes and arrows that had found their mark—or nearly had. The orders came from the king himself, but hearing them delivered by the man he'd considered his closest friend in this foreign land made them sting all the more.

Their footsteps echoed differently—Gareth's boots heavy and uneven against the polished marble, the prince's slippers whisper-quiet. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the crystalline windows, casting rainbow fractals across the purple carpeted runner. Tapestries depicting centuries of elven victories lined the walls, each battle documented in silk thread and gold leaf. Gareth had fought in wars that would never earn such commemoration.

"You've been back for what, an hour?" Gareth continued, his voice rough from shouting commands across muddy fields. "My men are still being stitched together by your healers, and I'm being summoned to discuss marriage contracts?"

Prince Aerendil's pristine white hair caught the light as he moved, making him seem almost translucent against the palace's gleaming architecture. The contrast between them couldn't have been starker—the prince in his immaculate silver robes that flowed like water, moving with that unnatural elven grace, while Gareth limped slightly from a spear wound to his thigh that hadn't fully healed. His leather armor creaked with every step, still damp with sweat and grime.

"The High Council believes this union will solidify certain... political necessities," Aerendil said, his melodic voice maddeningly calm. He didn't even turn around, just continued his steady glide down the corridor past marble statues of long-dead heroes. "Your loyalty to Aeldoria has been noted, Commander. This is not a punishment."

"It feels like one." Gareth's hand instinctively went to the pommel of his sword—his real sword, not the decorative one palace guards wore—then fell away. Old habits. The weight of it was a comfort even now, though bringing weapons into these halls had earned him more than a few disapproving looks from elven courtiers. "I'm a soldier, not a political pawn. I fight for this kingdom. I bleed for it. Isn't that enough?"

"In war, we are all pawns, my friend." The prince finally paused before an ornate door carved with intertwining vines and starlight, inlaid with mother-of-pearl that seemed to shift in the light. His amber eyes—ancient and knowing despite his youthful face—met Gareth's gray ones for the first time since they'd begun this uncomfortable march. There was something there, flickering in those inhuman irises. Pity? Regret? "The kingdom needs this alliance, Gareth. And you... you need to build a life beyond the battlefield. Before it consumes what little remains of you."

The words hit harder than any blade could. Gareth's jaw clenched, teeth grinding together. A dozen arguments rose in his throat—bitter, angry things about duty and sacrifice and how he'd already given up everything once before. But Aerendil was already turning away, his long fingers wrapping around the silver door handle shaped like a crescent moon.

"At least meet them," the prince said quietly, and now there was definitely something painful in his voice. "One conversation. That's all I ask of you. Not as your prince, but as your friend."

The door swung open on silent hinges, revealing a circular chamber beyond. More windows, more light. A waiting room designed to put visitors at ease with its soft furniture and growing plants that had no business thriving indoors. The scent of jasmine and something else—something unfamiliar—drifted out.

"You cannot expect me to—"

His words died in his throat.

Gareth's eyes locked onto {{user}}, sitting alone in the waiting room bathed in afternoon light. His prepared protests evaporated like morning mist.