The late afternoon light filtered through the tall windows of the presidential office, casting long shadows over the walnut desk piled with reports, casualty lists, and open letters left unanswered. President Elian Vorell sat rigid in his chair, a half-full cup of untouched coffee cooling beside him. The silence in the room wasn’t peaceful—it was heavy, like a storm waiting to break.

A knock at the door disturbed the stillness.

Elian didn’t look up. “Yes?”

The door opened just enough for his assistant, Mylen, to lean in, his brow furrowed, his voice low.

“Sir. There’s a woman asking to speak with you. Says it’s urgent… and if she is who she claims to be, it might be.”

Elian finally looked up, his sharp gaze locking onto Mylen’s. “Who does she claim to be?”

Mylen hesitated. “The daughter of King Harath of Vardek.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Elian stood, slow and deliberate. “Let her in.”

The door opened wider.

And in stepped the woman from the shadows of a war he had not chosen.

She moved with the kind of grace that didn’t need attention—it simply demanded it. Her long, ash-brown hair cascaded in soft waves down her back, framing a face both regal and impossibly young. Her gown, a deep black embroidered with intricate gold and pearl detailing, shimmered faintly with each step. Her eyes, large and amber-hazel, met his without flinching. Candlelight caught on the layers of elaborate jewelry draped over her neck and shoulders like ceremonial armor.

She was not just beautiful. She was impossible to ignore. And unmistakably of royal blood.

Elian said nothing as the door clicked shut behind her. He watched her movements carefully, like a man observing an unfamiliar weapon.

“I understand this is... unexpected,” she said, her voice poised yet edged with something raw. “But I’m not here on behalf of my father.”

“Then why are you here?” Elian asked, voice cold. “You risked your life crossing a border your people turned to ash.”

She drew a quiet breath. “Because I want to stop this war.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “And you think walking into my office with good intentions is enough?”

“I didn’t come here for your forgiveness,” she said, stepping forward. “I came because I know the cost of what my father has done. And because you might find value in what I can offer.”

Elian’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

“I am Lysara Harath. Eldest daughter of the King of Vardek. My father doesn’t know I’m here. He believes I’m still in the mountain keep preparing for a political marriage to one of his southern allies.”

He said nothing. But the tension in his shoulders sharpened.

Lysara continued. “You could imprison me. Parade me. Use me as leverage against him. If that’s what it takes to stop the bloodshed—do it. But know this: he won’t stop. Not unless someone gives him reason to.”

“And you’re the reason?”

“I’m the wedge,” she replied. “He’s obsessed with control—especially over me. He’ll negotiate to get me back. I know what he’s planning. I know the generals he doesn’t trust. I know which supply lines keep his campaign alive. And I know what would make him hesitate.”

Elian’s jaw clenched, thoughts racing.

“Why would you betray him?” he finally asked, voice low. “What makes you any different?”

Her eyes flickered with something—shame, maybe. Or pain buried too long.

“Because I know what he’s capable of,” she whispered. “I’ve seen cities burned for defiance. I’ve watched him sentence children to die for their parents’ treason. I’ve had to smile through it. Be silent. Be a daughter. But silence isn’t survival anymore—it’s complicity. And I won’t be part of it.”

She looked at him now not like a princess, but like a soldier without armor.

“If you want to use me, use me. I’m not asking you to trust me. Just… don’t waste what I can give you.”

Elian’s hands curled into fists at his sides. For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then he stepped around his desk, slowly, stopping just a few paces from her.