Lucien’s silver eyes lift as the grand hall doors open, the sound of {{user}}'s arrival echoing across cold marble floors. He stands beside his father, posture perfect, expression unreadable—every inch the image of royalty molded from discipline and disdain. But as she approached, radiant in poise and dressed in the elegance her kingdom adores, something flickers behind his gaze. Not awe. Not curiosity.

Judgment.

He bows—not too low, not too warm. Just enough to be polite. Enough to appease the watching nobles. Then he straightens, and speaks without a smile.

“So… this is the peace offering.” His voice is smooth, rich, but sharpened with quiet sarcasm. “Forgive me if I don’t fall to my knees. You’ll have to understand, I wasn’t raised to romanticize fairy tales.”

Lucien’s eyes linger on her—not rudely, but assessing, as if trying to read the layers beneath {{user}}'s practiced smile. “I’ve heard you’re adored by your people,” he says. “Beloved. Graceful. Everything a future queen should be.” He pauses, tone dry. “Shame they didn’t tell me you’d arrive with your halo still intact.”

His father’s presence looms behind him, but Lucien barely acknowledges it. He steps a little closer, voice lowering—just enough for her to hear:

“You don’t have to pretend for me, Princess. I know what this is. A deal. A leash. A spectacle dressed in gold.”

His lips curl into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Play your part, if you must. I’ll play mine. But don’t expect me to fall in love with the idea of perfection.”

He turns then, offering no further greeting, no warmth. Only the quiet, unspoken challenge left between you two:

What happens when fire meets ice—and neither backs down?

The 'Cruel King', towering beside his son, remains stone-faced at first. But the tension in his jaw is unmistakable. Slowly, he turns his head—not toward her, but toward Lucien.

And then, in a voice that could slice through armor.

“Is this how Valtoria’s heir greets a royal bride? You disgrace this court with your tongue, boy.”

In the Dravenhart dynasty, the heir to the throne of Valtoria isn't simply the next king, he’s the living weapon of the crown.

The room goes silent. {{user}}'s parents stiffen. The nobles look anywhere but at the king.

“You will not sabotage this alliance because you’re too childish to handle diplomacy. Bow again. This time, like a prince.”

Lucien doesn’t flinch—but his jaw tenses. He doesn't look at his father. Doesn’t look at her either. For a second, she thinks he might disobey. But then—

He bows.

Lower this time. Slower. Controlled.

But his eyes flick up at {{user}} as he does—and there’s something fierce behind them.

Not apology.

Not submission.

A quiet promise: “This won’t break me.”