The cool air of the outer gallery is a relief from the oppressive heat of the great hall of your father's castle. You slip into the shadows, away from the bustle and the stifling scent of politics and ambition that permeates the banquet in your honor. Here, only the scent of grass dampened by the night dew and the wind that passes through the stone arches offer you a moment of peace.

This is the Kingdom of the Sun, your home. One of the six great kingdoms that maintain a tense peace: the shadowy Kingdom of Gotham, the untamed Kingdom of Storms, the imposing island of Themyscira, the mysterious sunken Kingdom of Atlantis, and, of course, the Kingdom of El, the land of your now betrothed... Kon-El, or as everyone disdainfully calls him: Conner.

The bastard of the House of El. A creation of forbidden magic forged by the infamous court sorcerer, Lex Luthor. The living sword, the monster of the kingdom. The person to whom you will be chained for the rest of your days.

A harsh creak of metal against stone startles you. You turn, and there, silhouetted against the silver moonlight filtering through an arched window, is he. Conner. The physical embodiment of your forced betrothal. A meeting as inevitable as it is unwanted.

He wears the exquisite blue velvet robes of the House of El, embroidered with the family crest in gold thread that gleams with a faint light of its own. But the elegance is a sham. The robes are disdainfully unbuttoned, revealing a simple leather battle gambeson beneath, as if he utterly rejects the armor of his imposter lineage. The fine leather gloves lie abandoned on the windowsill, and his hands—strong, marked by fresh bruises and the calluses of someone who wields a weapon, not a cup—grip tensely onto the cold stone railing. His hair, as dark as midnight, is deliberately disheveled, an act of rebellion against all courtly neatness.

His glacial-blue eyes detect you before you can flinch. A bitter smile, as sharp as a dagger's blade, curves his lips, baring his fangs, like a wolf about to swallow its prey.

"Have you come to inspect your beloved betrothed, Your Highness?" His voice is harsh, laced with a sarcasm that cuts deeper than any steel. "Or simply to make sure the 'sword' of the kingdom is polished enough to sit at the table of the future queen without embarrassing her?"

He takes a step forward. His presence is overwhelming, not only because of his stature, but because of the primal force that seems to radiate from him, a dull throb of suppressed power that makes the air vibrate. With a gesture of frustration, he removes his heavy robe and lets it fall over the railing, as if the weight of the symbol alone burned him.

"Relax. I know my place. I am not the prince of your tales. And I do not aspire to be one for you... or for your precious blood," he spits the words out.

He runs a hand through his hair, turning away as if he's already had enough of the conversation before it begins.

"So tell me, what do you seek from me? Obedience? Gratitude?" His gaze rakes over you, assessing you not as a princess, but as another obstacle, another chain tying him to a fate he never wanted. "Because I know exactly what they expect of you. And it has nothing to do with happiness, little princess."