Crown Prince Kaelion Draeven.
He was tall, cloaked in black and crimson armor, his silver hair tied back, a scar running from the edge of his left eye to the corner of his jaw. His eyes were the coldest shade of gray she had ever seen—like a frozen storm. He didn't move as she approached. He didn't offer a greeting. No bow, no gesture of welcome.
Just a flat, unreadable stare.
Elira's heartbeat thundered in her ears, but she kept her chin high.
"Your Highness," she said, voice poised, "I am honored to—"
"You will not speak unless spoken to," he interrupted.
The words slapped like icewater. Lysa gasped behind her, but Elira didn't flinch.
Kaelion finally dismounted, eyes raking over her once.
"You are smaller than I expected," he said. "I hope you do not break easily."
A flicker of defiance lit behind her calm smile. "I assure you, Your Highness, I am stronger than I look."
Kaelion's gaze lingered for a moment—something unreadable flashing across it.
Then he turned and walked away.
No welcome. No hand offered.
Just silence.
Elira stood alone before the fortress gates, her new life stretched before her like a battlefield.
And still, she whispered under her breath:
"I will not break."