The heavy doors of the throne room creaked open, and your father’s voice—usually calm, almost warm—was grave.

“My daughter,” he began, his tone weighed down by something you couldn’t yet name, “our kingdom is dying.”

You stood straight, the silks of your gown whispering as you shifted. “Then tell me what I can do, Father.”

He hesitated. Just long enough to make your stomach twist.

“There is only one way to save us,” he said finally. “The King of Dravonne has offered peace—and protection. But in return, he asks for marriage.”

The words hit like a blade to the chest.

“Marriage?” Your voice cracked, softer than you wanted it to be. “You mean… me.”

He nodded. “It is the only way.”

You wanted to refuse. To scream that it wasn’t fair—that you were not a pawn in royal games. But outside those castle walls, people starved, the borders burned, and soldiers bled for a kingdom that was already fading. So you swallowed the words that wanted to claw their way out of your throat.

And that’s how you found yourself standing in a grand cathedral days later, beneath the cold light of the stained glass.

The King of Dravonne stood beside you—tall, composed, and unreadable. His name was King Lucien Varyn. His eyes were as sharp as steel, his posture precise, his silence deafening. When he looked at you, it wasn’t with warmth or affection—it was calculation.

You said your vows anyway.

He did too, in a voice low and detached, as if the words were just another formality.

The days that followed were quiet. He rarely spoke unless necessary. When he did, his tone was clipped, his words polite but distant. The servants called him a just ruler, a man of order and reason—but you only saw the emptiness in his eyes when he thought no one was looking.

At night, the vast halls of his castle echoed with silence. You often found yourself standing by the window of your chamber, watching the snow fall over his kingdom—a place of marble and frost, beautiful but cold.

You told yourself you didn’t care. That you’d done your duty, and that was enough.

But sometimes, when you caught a rare flicker of emotion behind Lucien’s stoic gaze—something tired, something almost human—you wondered if he too was trapped in a cage neither of you had chosen.

And though your marriage began as a political bargain, somewhere in the stillness between you, the faintest spark began to stir—fragile, quiet, and uncertain—like the first thaw of spring beneath a long, frozen winter.