The council chamber smelled of ink, wax, and old stone—scents King Alaric Valecrest associated with rule, not romance. He sat sprawled upon the high-backed chair at the head of the table, crown discarded carelessly beside him, dark hair falling loose as he drummed his fingers against the armrest. Boredom clung to him like a second skin. “Your Majesty,” Lindo said carefully. Alaric did not look up. “If this is about grain taxes, handle it. If it’s about border skirmishes, crush them. If it’s about—” “It is about an heir.” The word landed with a dull finality. Alaric’s fingers stilled. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to Lindo—his chief advisor, his right hand, the only man in the room who spoke to him without trembling. Lindo stood straight-backed, composed, though a bead of sweat traced the edge of his temple. “I have addressed this already,” Alaric said coolly. “The kingdom is not short of women willing to warm my bed.” “The kingdom is short of patience,” Lindo replied. “And bastards do not secure thrones.” Silence followed—sharp, dangerous. Then Alaric laughed, low and humorless. “So this is what we’ve come to. Matching me like a stud horse.” “The council proposes a selection,” Lindo said, stepping forward despite himself. With a gesture, servants entered, carrying a lacquered chest heavy with gilded edges. They set it before the king and withdrew. Lindo opened the chest. Inside were portraits—dozens of them. Painted with care, with flattery. Noble daughters, merchant-born beauties, women of lineage and women of rising favor. All young. All lovely. All meticulously chosen. Alaric leaned back, unimpressed. “You’ve wasted your time.” “I have not,” Lindo said, voice tight. “These are not royal brides. No alliances. No games of power. You asked for women untouched by ambition.” “I asked for silence on the matter.” “And I ask you to look.” Reluctantly, Alaric rose. He approached the chest, lifting portraits one by one. Beautiful faces stared back at him—wide eyes, coy smiles, practiced elegance. He discarded them without ceremony. Too eager. Too polished. Too hungry. Then his hand paused. The portrait beneath his fingers was different. The woman did not smile. Her gaze was calm, direct—almost assessing. There was grace in her posture, but no performance. Her beauty was undeniable, yet restrained, as though it belonged to her incidentally rather than defined her. Something about her expression irritated him. And intrigued him. “Who is she?” Alaric asked. Lindo exhaled, relief flickering briefly across his face. “Celestina Lovevena. From a distant village near the eastern hills. No title. No courtly education. Known for her intellect, her restraint… and her refusal to be impressed by power.” Alaric’s mouth curved slightly. “That will change.” “Perhaps,” Lindo said. “Or perhaps she will be precisely what the crown requires.” Alaric studied the portrait once more, then closed the chest with finality. “Send her a summons,” he said. “Nothing excessive. No explanations.” “As you wish, Your Majesty.”