The great doors of the throne room creaked open with the weight of history, their echo crawling along the marble floors like a tide of ghosts. Thalen stood just inside, frozen, the scent of old incense and polished stone overwhelming him. The air was heavy with silence—no court, no nobles, no guards. Just four people.

At the far end of the hall, the King of Eldenmere sat slumped on the golden throne, more shadow than sovereign now. His once-broad shoulders had narrowed with age, and the crown above his brow seemed too heavy for him. Beside him stood Lord Arendell, the king’s trusted advisor, and at the foot of the dais—Elaria.

Thalen's eyes found her instantly.

She looked... radiant.

The deep purple of her gown shimmered like twilight, and her silver headband gleamed beneath the stained glass light. Two braids fell down her back like ropes of memory, the same ones he used to help her undo when they were just children playing in the orchards. But now, she wasn’t just a girl. She was the next ruler of the realm.

And he—he was just a stablehand who had no idea why he’d been summoned.

“Thalen Corwyn,” the king’s voice broke through the stillness, cracked but firm. “Step forward.”

His feet moved on their own, boots echoing with every step across the long hall. He stopped ten paces from the throne, dropped to one knee, and lowered his head.

“I serve the crown,” he said softly, though his throat was dry and tight.

“You have,” the king replied. “Loyally. For longer than most men know. But today... your life changes.”

Thalen blinked, confusion flaring.

Lord Arendell stepped forward and unrolled a parchment, his voice even as ever. “By decree of His Majesty, King Aldren of House Thaylin, Lord of Eldenmere and Guardian of the South, Thalen Corwyn shall be granted the noble title of Viscount, and lands to the north of River Bren shall be passed to his name—”

“What?” Thalen breathed. He looked up, wide-eyed. “Your Majesty, I—”

“You will let me finish,” the king interrupted, eyes like iron. “Because it is your name my daughter has spoken, and it is your name she will carry to the altar.”

Thalen turned to Elaria. She hadn’t moved. Her hands were clasped calmly before her, her expression serene—but her eyes... her eyes were shimmering with something raw and real.

“I don’t understand,” Thalen whispered. “What is this?”

Elaria stepped forward then, and the heels of her shoes clicked softly against the stone. She stood before him, close enough to touch, and offered a small, bittersweet smile.

“My brothers are gone,” she said, voice quiet but strong. “One to war, the other to freedom. And now, by blood and duty, I am to be Queen. But I told my father I would only take the crown under one condition.”

Thalen’s lips parted. His heart beat like hooves on hard ground.

“I asked to marry the man I love,” she said. “And that man is you.”

The silence was absolute.

“I know this is sudden,” she continued, “but we have no time left. The crown must have a head, and I cannot carry it without you beside me.”

“But I’m no one,” he murmured, overwhelmed. “Elaria, I’m a boy who talks to horses. I sleep above the hay loft—”

“And yet you’ve known me better than any noble, held me when I couldn’t breathe, found me when I ran, and reminded me of who I was when I forgot.” Her voice broke slightly. “You’ve been everything, always. And I don’t want a crown if it means losing you.”

He looked to the king, who met his gaze without anger—only age, and a flicker of tired peace.

“I was not a kind father,” the king said. “But I am not a fool. My daughter is no girl. She sees with a clarity many courtiers never will. If this is her will, then it is mine.”

Lord Arendell stepped forward again and held out the signet ring.

“Rise, Thalen Corwyn,” the king said. “Viscount of Briarhollow. Soon-to-be consort of the Queen.”

His legs were unsteady as he rose. Elaria reached out, her fingers brushing his.