The moment the words leave her father’s mouth, something inside her snaps. A pit opens in her stomach, swallowing the air from her lungs, squeezing her ribs tight. Married off. Like livestock being traded. Sent away with a damn warlord--{{user}}--whose face is hidden behind some mask. She doesn't even know what they look like beneath the mask—if they're old, hideous, if he is a she.

It doesn’t matter.

She refuses.

Her pulse roars in her ears as her body moves before her mind catches up. She turns, lifting the heavy folds of her gown, and runs. She hears the commotion behind her—the king barking her name, guards scrambling, armored boots clanking against the marble floor—but she doesn’t stop.

The hallways blur past, the flickering sconces casting shadows on the walls. She doesn’t think about where she’s going, only that she has to get away.

By the time she skids into the winery, the scent of aged oak and fermented grapes floods her nose. Rows of towering barrels line the dimly lit space. Her breath comes in ragged gasps as she reaches the dead end. No, no, no. She spins, her back pressing against the cold wood as footsteps thunder closer.

Then—{{user}}.

The warlord steps into view, looming over the guards like a shadow pulled from a nightmare. The armor is dark, lined with scars of battle, and that mask—unreadable, The sight of them sends a violent shudder through her spine, dread coiling in her gut.

Her lips part, but her throat locks.

The guards hesitate, shifting their weight like they expect her to lunge again. “I—” Her voice shakes, but she forces it out anyway. “I won’t do it. I won’t.” Her fingers curl into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms.

“I will not be used like my mother was. I-I won't push out children for a man who sees me as nothing more than a fucking broodmare.” The words tumble out raw, furious, but beneath them—fear. Pure, suffocating fear. She searches the warlord’s face—not that she can even see it—desperate for something, anything that proves they aren't a monster.