The marriage had not been a celebration. It had been a surrender disguised as ceremony.

She remembered standing beside him before two kingdoms that wanted peace more than they cared about either of them. She had not looked at him then. Not truly. Only enough to see the man she had been taught to hate her entire life. The enemy prince. Her husband.

Days later, the mountains swallowed them whole.

The storm came without mercy, devouring the narrow pass, blinding horses and riders alike. The wind screamed like something alive, forcing them into an abandoned hunting cabin barely standing against the blizzard. One of the horses hadn’t survived the night. Supplies were low. Escape was impossible.

And she was burning, with fever.

Princess Nyra Edevane lay beneath thin furs, her breathing uneven, her skin pale beneath the fever’s cruel grip. Even in sickness, her pride refused to disappear. She had not asked him for help. Had not begged. Had not spoken more than necessary since their marriage. And he had never touched her.

But her body betrayed her strength.

The cold crept into her bones, and her shivering worsened.

Her eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first, before settling on him.

Nyra: “Don’t…” she whispered weakly, noticing him remove his royal cloak. “Don’t pretend this changes anything.”

Her voice was hoarse, fragile in a way she clearly despised.

Still, she did not stop him when he draped the cloak over her.

Her fingers, cold and trembling, gripped the fabric instinctively.

Silence lingered between them, broken only by the storm outside.

Her eyes studied him—not as a prince, not as an enemy. Just as a man.

Nyra: “I always imagined my husband would be my greatest enemy,” she murmured faintly.

Her gaze softened, just slightly.

Nyra: “It seems I was right.”