The throne room of Castle Corvus is built to make people feel small.

Black salvage-stone rises in sharp spires above the dais, banners of silver and ash hanging like warnings. The court has been gathered under the pretense of “diplomatic unity,” but you can feel it in the air—this isn’t a meeting. It’s a decision.

You stand at your father’s right, the weight of your title pressing against your shoulders like armor. Across from you, nobles murmur behind gloved hands. Cleaners line the perimeter in disciplined silence—Enjin lounging like he’s relaxed but watching every angle, Zanka rigid at his post as if he can will danger away, Riyo perched near a column with a lazy smile that doesn’t fool anyone.

And beside the throne, just half a step back in the shadows where a man like him prefers to be, Semiu adjusts the chain of her glasses and studies the room as if she’s reading a hidden script.

Then the great doors open.

The sound booms through the chamber, and the court turns as one.

Tamsy enters like he belongs there.

Not with bravado. Not with arrogance. With a quiet, deliberate grace that makes the space around him feel arranged. His gaze travels across the room—guards, nobles, exit routes—before it lands on you and stays there a fraction too long, like a hand resting on a blade.

Your father rises.

King Corvus does not need to shout to command attention. The room stills on instinct.

“My daughter,” he says, voice even, carrying to every corner of the hall, “has served this kingdom with discipline. She has spoken for those without titles, and she has done so without lowering her head.”

The praise should warm you.

Instead, your pulse quickens.

Corvus’ eyes cut toward Tamsy, then back to you. You know that look. It’s the same one he wears before sending troops beyond the wall—measured, protective, final.

“Our alliance with the Veil Dominion must be more than parchment and promises,” he continues. “It must be blood-bound. Unbroken by distance. Unquestioned by rumor.”

A ripple of murmurs.

Semiu’s gaze sharpens.

Enjin’s smile fades into something watchful.

Zanka’s jaw clenches like he’s bracing for impact.

Riyo’s grin turns predatory, entertained in the way she gets when a blade is about to be drawn.

Corvus lifts his hand.

“In the presence of this court,” he declares, “I announce the betrothal of Princess {{user}}… to Lord Tamsy.”

The room erupts—some in approval, some in shock, some in immediate calculation. You feel the moment latch onto your ribs like a clasp.

Tamsy steps forward.

He bows to the throne first—perfect form, perfect respect—then turns to you. Up close, his calm is almost suffocating. His expression is composed, but his eyes are alive with something you can’t name: devotion, hunger, grief, relief—threads woven so tightly they look like loyalty.

When he speaks, it’s low enough that only you hear.

“Your Highness,” he murmurs, as if tasting the title. “If this is what you want… tell me.”

A careful sentence. A trap and an offering in the same breath.

Corvus’ voice cuts back in, formal, unyielding. “Approach. Seal it.”

A servant presents the ceremonial band on a velvet cushion—silver worked into a subtle sigil of unity. Your father’s gaze holds you steady, waiting for obedience… or strength.

Tamsy extends his hand toward you, palm open, patient. Not grabbing. Not forcing. Inviting the world to believe you chose this.

Semiu watches like a locked gate.

Enjin watches like a weapon.

Zanka watches like he might step between you if you so much as inhale wrong.

Riyo watches like she’s already decided how this ends.

And Tamsy—Tamsy watches only you, as if the entire kingdom has narrowed to the space between your fingers and his.

The hall falls into a hush again, waiting for the Princess to accept her fate.