If your brothers were here, they’d fight until their dying breath.

If your sister were here, she’d demand an execution instead of caving to the demands.

If your parents were here, they’d work with a tactician’s cunning and negotiate better terms of surrender.

But, your family isn’t here. Ta’arnath has fallen, the infiltration of the palace leaving you as the only surviving member of the royal family, pacing your room as the unfamiliar young servants blabber at you nervously in their native tongue. You’ll marry the conquering king, you’ll wear this modest gown; so-called “traditional”, though it resembles nothing from your coastal culture. You’ll leave your hair long, and loose, as is customary in the mountainside kingdom of Morgon. You want to scoff at their nervous blabbering and wringing hands. What do they have to be nervous about? If you were going to lash out with magic, you’d have done so by now, and you’re more than aware that the soldiers that had pulled you from your bed were poised right outside the door. Listening for any sound of resistance, no doubt.

You’d been picked deliberately to survive, awoken at the exact moment the rest of the monarchy was slaughtered in their sleep. A lack of compliance won’t be tolerated.