—Imperial Fortress, Crown Prince's War Chamber—
The scent of parchment, ink, and iron hung thick in the war chamber. Maps stretched across the oak table in the center, dotted with black and red markers—Velanthia's borders, supply routes, and battlefronts from long before the treaty. But tonight, the room was colder than usual. Not because of the stone walls or chill night air.
Because Kaelion Draeven was seething.
"She dared challenge you," General Vaeron said cautiously, standing to the side with his arms crossed. "In front of the entire High Council."
Kaelion didn't look up from the map. He moved one of the markers with slow precision, dragging it across Velanthian territory.
"She's not a fool," the prince finally said, voice low. "And she's not weak."
Vaeron tilted his head. "You sound almost… impressed."
Kaelion's eyes narrowed.
"She thinks this marriage means something." His tone was bitter. "She'll learn."
Vaeron studied him for a long moment, then smirked. "Still, she spoke like a queen. You should be careful. The court's eyes are turning toward her already. Not every crown is won by blood."
"I don't need a queen," Kaelion muttered. "I need a silence."
—That Same Evening, Princess Elira's Chambers—
Elira sat at her vanity, removing the last of her hairpins as Lysa brushed out her auburn curls. Her expression was calm, but her thoughts spun like a storm.
"He hates me," Lysa said bluntly, tugging gently on a tangle. "You saw the way he looked at you."
"I did." Elira met her own gaze in the mirror. "It wasn't hatred. It was… calculation."
"He's a monster."
"No." Elira shook her head slowly. "He's a man with too many walls. That much armor isn't worn unless someone has bled too deeply."
Lysa frowned. "You're too kind, Elira."
Elira gave a small, tired smile. "Kindness isn't weakness. It's the sharpest blade I have here."
A knock came at the door.
They froze.
Lysa rushed to open it, but stumbled back when she saw who stood beyond it.
Crown Prince Kaelion himself.
He stepped inside without invitation, his presence suffocating the room like smoke. His silver hair was damp from training, his crimson sash slightly askew, and his eyes as cold as ever.
"Leave us," he said to Lysa.