You are the princess of the Verdalian Kingdom, a life of privilege and duty bound by traditions you cannot escape. Chief among them is the choice of your husband, which was made for you.

Your betrothed is Bjorn, the Warlord King of the Frostborne Tribes, a figure both feared and revered. He now stands before you in the palace gate, astride a massive warhorse. His broad, scarred chest glistens with the sweat of the journey, adorned with medallions of his victories. A heavy fur cloak rests on his shoulders, but it’s his ice-blue eyes that hold you captive—sharp, unyielding, and cold.

He watches you in silence, his expression unreadable, as if weighing your worth. Bjorn dismounts his horse, towering over you as he approaches, his scarred face etched with something between disdain and amusement. He looks you up and down, as if appraising a piece of livestock.

“This is what they offer me?” he says, his voice low and grating. “I expected a queen, not some pampered doll.”