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Her thoughts drift to the prince. She does not wonder what his physical appearance might reveal, but rather his manners. Will he hold an ounce of kindness? Will he respect the boundaries she intends to place, or will he expect them to be ignored? Or will he prove to be the same kind of man her father is?

Releasing a sharp exhale, Elara casts her unanswerable questions into the wind. Gathering the folds of her skirt, she begins her ascent to seek refuge in sleep, hoping she can block out the world until the dreaded dinner has passed. She freezes mid-step, her dirt-stained nightgown trailing behind her as Walker’s words echo in her mind. She turns back toward the garden.

“You can pray, and wish for the best anyway,”

She steps down into the garden. Getting onto her knees on the rough, dirty ground, her brown hair spilling into her face, she presses her trembling hands into the earth.

“World,” her voice breaks, though she forces her emotions back, trying not to cry again. “I do not know what to pray for anymore. I am entirely speechless.” Her composure shatters as a tear streams down her cheek. “I am afraid. Please, do not let anything bad happen. Do not let me be hurt again.”

Elara squeezes her eyes shut, stopping any further tears. She stands and returns to the castle, leaving her prayers behind in the quiet air, her tears the only water to touch the barren soil.

By the time the afternoon shadows lengthen into twilight, the entire fortress is thrown into a tense, chaotic rhythm. The halls fill with the frantic scuffle of servant slippers rushing down the corridors, the clink of metal from guards preparing formal armaments, and the crisp rustle of silks being carried to the dining chambers. In her own chamber, the air feels stagnant.

Walker moves with a desperate haste, her hands trembling as she hovers over the vanity table to set the final preparations. Locking Elara into her presentation is an agonizing ritual. Walker lifts the heavy pink gown, its fabric stiff from the thick, multicolored floral embroidery that runs from the bodice down to the sweeping train. Stepping into it feels like stepping into a cage. Walker works quickly as she pulls the rigid cords of the corset tight, cinching Elara’s ribs and forcing her spine straight.

As the seventh hour approaches, Elara descends to the dining chamber to await the arrival of her betrothed. She shifts in her fitted gown, the oppressive heat pressing against her chest as she struggles for each breath. Her head throbs beneath the weight of her elaborate hairstyle, the reality of her situation and uncomfortable attire mingling together until she chokes.

Some of the guards readjust their white and gold uniforms, straightening their posture as they press their backs against the walls near the dining hall doors. Others pace near the castle entrance, awaiting the arrival of the family.

Nausea tightens her throat. For years, panic has seized her whenever her thoughts spiral too far, but tonight, the panic is sharpened by a cold wave of disgust. She loathes this unseen prince already, repulsed by the concept of a man who would willingly accept a faceless, bartered bride simply to expand his borders. He is another tyrant in the making, molded by the same cruel systems that built her father. Beneath the disgust, however, a thread of curiosity tugs at her mind.

What kind of monster is he? Does he possess a cruel sneer, or does he hide his malice behind polite, courtly masks?

Elara clenches her fists at her sides to stop herself from tearing the crown from her head, the bright pink gown with its flowers and long train from her body. How easy it would be to rip at the length of her hair until nothing remained to restrain her.

Walker’s presence registers before she even comes into view, heralded by her usual uniform. She wears a long, heavy beige dress that reaches her knees, layered over with a thick white apron and suffocating white tights that trap the heat against her skin. Her expression remains fixed in a subtle discomfort. The bleak reality of their attire is impossible to ignore.

Walker wears these restrictive, coarse fabrics not for personal flair, but because every servant and every guard must present perfection at all times under the King’s decrees. It is a punishing duty, not vanity, serving as a permanent reminder of the expectations binding them all, and of the rigid, suffocating life Elara is about to be forced into. Walker looks up at her, offering a reassuring smile.

Nearly breaking at the sight, Elara shakes her head as her caregiver steps closer and cups her pale cheeks with warm hands.

“I am here for you,” she whispers.

Elara nods. “I know. I cannot believe this is happening,” she admits, her heart pounding.

“I know,” Walker murmurs, pressing her forehead against Elara’s. “He will be a good man. I promise.” She reaches for Elara's trembling hands and presses something small and cool into her palm, closing the girl's fingers around it. It is a pressed flower, brittle with age, its petals long faded to brown. “Keep this,” she murmurs. “It was your mother’s. I have kept it longer than I should have, protecting it until the right moment to give it to you.”

Taking the offering, Elara blinks back tears as the mention of her mother threatens to shatter her fragile composure. “Do not promise that he will be a good man,” she says, her voice trembling. “You cannot know that.”

Before Walker can answer, her father’s voice carries through the hall, bright with a sudden, manufactured pride. “Ah, yes. Elara is here.”

Turning, Elara straightens, forcing her face into a neutral mask as she watches the royal family from Riverath enter the chamber. The air thickens, the mumbled chatter stopping as all eyes fix upon the visitors. Their attire is striking, a uniform display of silver and black from head to foot, presenting sharp and commanding features.

This king, however, she recognizes at once. Thick black hair streaked with silver falls to the nape of his neck, and his cool, pale gray eyes assess the chamber. Standing taller than her father, his presence commands attention without effort. He wears a deep black robe embroidered with intricate silver patterns, a black-fur mantle secured by a silver chain, and a crown of pure silver resting above his brow.

King Raelith Everhart of Riverath has arrived.

Every detail of his past, brief visits to Veyrenn resurfaces with sudden clarity. During those old courts, her mother had always kept her close, using stories and gentle laughter to shield her from the adult conversations of the monarchs. Now, the warmth she associates with those distant memories is gone, replaced by dread.

Her focus shifts immediately to the young man walking beside the King, the prince she is being forced to marry. Mirroring the commanding stature of his family, he enters the chamber with an undeniable grace. Soft waves of dark hair frame his striking features, beneath high cheekbones and a strong jawline. Piercing gray eyes touched faintly with blue fix upon the chamber, and his full, parted lips lend him a brooding, enigmatic air. Rich black fabric fits his form, while silver embroidery traces elaborate patterns across his high-collared vest. A polished, silver crown rests atop his head, tipped with black gems. He appears undeniably beautiful, and the sight steals her breath. Before the weight of the moment can entirely envelop her, she realizes he is looking directly at her. His gaze is unreadable. Cael’s expression remains neutral until his eyes widen. It only deepens her confusion, causing her brow to furrow further.

Only then does she notice the rest of his party. Behind them stands the Queen, a quiet but commanding woman with intelligent brown eyes and immaculate black hair cascading over her heavy black gown. Following closely is a young princess, looking to be about eighteen. Her floor-length black gown glimmers subtly like distant starlight beneath a small black tiara. Rather than coldness, the young princess stares in her direction with pure excitement.

She is bright, smiling. The warmth draws an involuntary smile from Elara’s own lips, sparking a hope that she might have an ally in this strange family.

Pulled back to reality by the sound of her father’s voice, she listens as he speaks with a hollow cheerfulness that sends a shiver of disgust through her limbs. To hear him so joyful after years of cold indifference is a bitter weight to bear.

Elara jumps when her father barks a command for her to curtsy to the prince. Stunned, she looks at her father before glancing back at the prince, who stands only a few feet away with that same unreadable expression. Her heart resumes its frantic pounding. The standard greeting now carries the crushing weight of her absolute surrender before a chamber of strangers.