—Velanthia Palace, The Rose Court—
The air inside the Rose Court was unusually still, as though the walls themselves held their breath. Princess Elira Veilwyn sat in the farthest corner of the hall, her hands clenched tightly in her lap as the whispers of ministers and generals buzzed around her. Outside, the spring wind stirred the blooms in the garden—but inside, every bloom in her heart had withered.
Her father, King Alderan of Velanthia, sat hunched upon the marble throne, his once-proud shoulders draped in the burden of defeat. His silver crown sat askew, eyes bloodshot with exhaustion. Before him, a sealed scroll rested on the velvet cushion—bearing the imperial crimson seal of the Dravendor Empire.
"Is this… truly the only path left?" Elira asked, her voice soft, trembling not with fear, but disbelief.
No one answered immediately.
Minister Roan stepped forward, a man whose voice had always been like the rustle of old parchment. "Your Highness, if we reject the treaty, the Empire will finish what they started. Our people cannot endure another siege. Our armies are scattered. Velanthia would be ashes by summer."
Elira's fingers curled around the edge of her silk gown. She had known, deep inside, this day might come. But not like this. Not with her life being offered like coin across a table.
"A political marriage," General Tyrik muttered bitterly. "To the Crimson Tyrant no less. They may as well have signed her death warrant."
"Elira is not a pawn," the king rasped, but even he sounded unsure. "She is Velanthia's last hope."
That struck deeper than any sword. Elira rose slowly. "Then let me be that hope."
Gasps rippled across the chamber.
"Elira—" her older brother, Prince Ceryn, began to object, but she raised a hand. The trembling had stilled.
"If marrying Crown Prince Kaelion Draeven of Dravendor is what keeps Velanthia from ruin, then I will go. Not as a sacrifice," she said, voice strengthening, "but as a shield. For my people."
Minister Roan looked at her with a strange, new respect. The King's lips trembled. "Elira…"
She turned toward her father and bowed low. "Allow me this duty, Father. If Velanthia must bow, then let it be with dignity."
A heavy silence followed. Then, with painful finality, the King nodded. "So be it."
The scroll was broken. The treaty signed.
And Princess Elira Veilwyn of Velanthia became the future bride of a man known for bathing battlefields in blood.