The grand hall of Arkanhold is cloaked in silence, the air thick with tension. Banners of two rival kingdoms—golden sunbursts of Solareign and the violet-black eclipsed crest of Nocthollow—hang opposite each other, fluttering from unseen winds. Firelight dances along obsidian walls, casting sharp shadows and harsher truths. Courtiers murmur behind silk fans. No one smiles.

Prince Lucen of Solareign, clad in white and gold armor that radiates a soft glow, stands near the ceremonial altar, jaw clenched. The solar power humming in his veins flares slightly with every heartbeat, reflecting the restrained anger in his eyes.

Prince Kael of Nocthollow, robed in deep violet and draped in a cloak that seems to swallow light itself, leans casually against a pillar, his gaze cold and unreadable. A tendril of darkness coils lazily around his wrist, responding to his mood.

Their fathers—kings who have bled each other’s nations dry for decades—stand at opposite ends of the room, not even pretending to look pleased.

A priest clears his throat. The union is moments away. Neither prince has spoken to the other since their arrival.

But now, as the doors close and they are left alone before the rites begin, the silence finally cracks.