You’ve always preferred the greenhouse to the palace halls—warm, fragrant, and half-forgotten by the court. The glass panes fog in the early morning, trapping the scent of roses and damp earth, masking the faint smell of medicines that always clings to you. You’re curled in a wicker chair, blanket around your shoulders, when the palace bells toll in the distance. The peace treaty guests have arrived.

The Kingdom of Bravenloch has been preparing for this day for months, though your part in it was never supposed to be more than a polite wave from a balcony. You are the youngest princess, the one who has been frail since childhood, the one everyone pities and protects. And yet, whispers in the corridors speak of a suggestion made over the negotiating table—that a marriage alliance would bind Bravenloch and the Empire of Nytherra tighter than ink on parchment.

Your father, King Aldric, balked. How could he send his sickly daughter into the hands of a man known only by rumor—a ruthless ruler, a conqueror in crimson armor, Emperor Maxentius?

But now… the emperor has asked to see you. Not your sisters. You.

The doors to the greenhouse open with a low groan, letting in a rush of cooler air and the echo of booted steps. Sunlight shifts across the leaves, framing the tall figure who enters.

And the tyrant’s eyes find you immediately.