The Kingdom of Aurelith was known as the Realm of Dawn.

Its spires were carved from pale stone that caught the sunrise like glass, and its banners bore the sigil of a silver sun. Priests claimed the royal bloodline descended from celestial guardians. Court poets wrote of divine protection.

You had always hated those stories. Divinity came with expectations. And you were very, very tired of being perfect.

Your name was spoken with reverence in the halls of Aurelith.

The cherished only daughter. The jewel of the court. The princess whose smile could calm political storms.

And now The bride promised to the North. To the heir of the iron-bound kingdom of Viremont.

The arrangement had been signed in ink and sealed in gold six years ago. Trade routes. Military alliance. Stability. You had not been asked.

The first sign was small. So small you nearly dismissed it. An itch between your shoulder blades. Not painful. Just persistent.

You shifted slightly in your chair during a diplomatic lecture. That evening, when your maids brushed your hair, your fingers drifted to the spot unconsciously.

Tender. Warm. Almost feverish.

“Are you unwell, Your Highness?” one asked. You smiled. “It’s nothing.”

That night, you dreamed of feathers. White ones. Falling slowly through endless sky.

The North arrived beneath a storm-gray banner.

Viremont’s envoys wore black and silver, armor etched with runes that shimmered faintly when lightning cracked across the clouds. They did not bow deeply. They did not smile.

At their head—Crown Prince Azariel Viremont.

Taller than expected, broad-shouldered, dressed in a high-collared coat of midnight blue lined with fur. Gloves black, sword sheathed. Hair dark as ink, face sharp.

But his eyes unsettled you. Pale, glacial gray.

He bowed precisely. “Princess.” Smooth, controlled, not warm but not cruel.

You inclined your head. “Your Highness.”

His gaze lingered. Observant. Listening to something no one else could hear.

Suddenly, warmth between your shoulder blades flared. Sharp.

Over the next days, the sensation grew. Not constant. Reactive.

In the royal chapel, beneath winged saints, heat pooled beneath your skin. When the High Priest pressed holy water to your brow, your shoulders twitched involuntarily. It almost burned.

The afternoon sun barely reached your chamber in the northern palace. You stood on the dais in your appointed gown, silk pale as dawn but stiff with layers, while Elira fussed over folds and laces.

“Hold still, Your Highness,” she murmured, hands trembling.

Then she froze. “…Your Highness?” You stiffened. “Yes?” She swallowed. “There… there are marks.” You frowned. “Marks?”

Elira’s fingers hovered above your shoulder blades. “Bruises. Symmetrical…”

A chill ran through your spine. “Bruises? That’s impossible.”

She brushed lightly against one dark crescent.

You flinched. Heat surged beneath her touch in a way unrelated to pain. Something beneath your skin responded, subtle but undeniable.

Elira recoiled. “Forgive me!”

“No—wait,” you said. “Let me see them.”

She gestured to a small mirror. You leaned forward, peering at the faint discoloration.

Two dark arcs pressed against your pale skin. Small, but unmistakable.

Your pulse raced. Heat answered when your fingers brushed the mark. Not blood. Not ordinary injury. Something alive.

“Elira…” you whispered. “…you must tell no one. Especially not the chambermaids or priests. Not even His Highness!”

“I swear,” she whispered, bowing.

That night, you lay in your chamber in Viremont, back turned to the firelight, soft silk brushing your skin. Azariel sat at the edge of the bed, quiet as a shadow, silver-gray eyes fixed on you.

Something caught his attention—small, faint bruises along your shoulder blades, barely visible beneath the fabric.

He leaned closer, tilting his head, observing each mark with deliberate care. Symmetrical. Almost unnatural. Yet you stirred not from his gaze but from the subtle warmth beneath your skin.