The sound of boots crunching against the pale gravel draws my attention as the royal carriages in front of ours are tended to. A footman is at the king’s carriage in an instant, opening the heavy door with the reverence one might use for a holy relic. King Silas steps down, draped in his customary black, the sun glinting off the golden threads woven through his tunic. Though his expression is neutral, his mere presence seems to draw every pair of Podrosan eyes, a ripple of tension threading through the crowd as if his reputation alone precedes him.
Queen Eleanor then disembarks her carriage, her veil short but dark, matching the folds of her somber gown. The breeze catches the edge of her sleeve, fluttering it like a warning flag, but she remains composed, chin slightly lifted. Her steps are light, but her face is harder than I remember—drawn tight, hollowed beneath the cheekbones.
Then Dante emerges. He moves like a shadow, stepping into place beside them, silent and composed, but even so, he is watched. Judged. The Podrosan court does not hide their curiosity the way the Hederan court pretends to. Their gaze follows his every move with an intensity that borders on calculation. He does not shrink from it. He meets it, eyes like storm light behind a curtain of dark lashes. Still, he spares a glance for me—fleeting, careful. But I catch it. And I carry it.
As the royals take their places a few paces in front of Nadya and me, the entire delegation begins to form a neat line of representatives. Hederan courtiers adjust their posture and fix their expressions into masks of civility. I fall into step with the rhythm of it—because I must.A glance over my shoulder reveals the rest of the courtiers following us in a haphazard formation. Among them are Indira and the queen’s maidservants as well as Ezra, who walks beside Farvis.
We ascend the stone steps, and mere seconds later, the great doors of the castle groan open on iron hinges. At the center of the entrance stands a beautiful woman around my age. Princess Orida Trevose, the only daughter of the Podrosan king and queen, holds her posture perfectly, the sleek fall of her golden hair catching the sunlight like polished silk. Her chin lifts imperceptibly as she surveys our party, cool elegance covering her like a second skin. Her gaze remains on Dante for a second longer, and I feel as if the judgment has already begun.
Beside her stands her cousin, Lord Marcos Trevose. His once-clean-shaven jaw is now framed by a neatly trimmed beard, just enough to lend a sculpted gravity to his otherwise-boyish features. I can’t help but notice that it suits him. Gone is the awkward heir who once tripped over his own feet while presenting me a bundle of withering lilies. In his place is a man who stands with quiet confidence, shoulders squared beneath his finely tailored coat of burgundy.
Our eyes meet, and there’s a pause, a flicker, like the moment before a page turns.
Something unreadable passes across his face—curiosity, perhaps. Hope. His gaze lingers just long enough for it not to be accidental. And when the corner of his mouth lifts in a slow, measured smile, I feel a ripple of unease stir at the base of my spine.
Not because he is unkind. But because I know that look.
A man testing the waters. Wondering if time and tragedy might have changed my mind. This was the man whom I rejected for Torbin. If I had decided differently, I would be standing at his side now, as his bride.
Though I didn’t choose him, the look on Marcos’s face tells me his offer is still on the table. Only, he wouldn’t be able to broach the subject while I’m in mourning. Not that it would do any good, anyway. King Silas has already nipped that idea in the bud.
I remind myself that Marcos doesn’t know about Dante or the king’s plan. No one outside of a select circle does.
They have no idea about the engagement the king has yet to announce.
They have no idea about the kiss that still lingers in my thoughts like the echo of a song I can’t quite shake.
Still, there is something in Marcos’s expression that softens the edges of what I remember. He doesn’t leer. He doesn’t posture. He only watches—measured, polite. Disciplined.
As our ensemble lines up, Dante realigns himself until he’s at my side. The firm line of his jaw tightens ever so slightly, and I realize he’s noticed Marcos staring at me. I feel the simmer of Dante’s attention, the subtle shift in the air between us.
You are mine.
I bite back the smile that emerges with the memory of his words.
“King Silas, Queen Eleanor,” Princess Orida says, her voice smooth and formal as she dips into a curtsey. She wears the same severity as her courtiers, her gown a deep garnet with no embellishments. “Welcome to Podrosa. My father and mother await your presence in the great hall.” Her gaze flickers briefly to Dante and me before returning to the king. “If you will follow me.”
Without waiting for a response, she turns sharply on her heel, leading us through the towering corridor.
The moment I step inside Ironshield Keep, I feel it in the air, woven into the very stone beneath my feet. The courtiers standing in two perfect rows along the great corridor hold their spines ramrod straight, their hands clasped neatly behind their backs. Not a single strand of hair is out of place, not a single garment wrinkled or out of alignment.
Their fashion mirrors the rigid order of their kingdom—long, high-collared coats for the men, not a lapel or cuff out of place. The women wear modestly-fitted bodices with structured skirts that fall to their ankles, the fabric stiff and unyielding. Dark colors dominate, navy and charcoal and deep crimson, with not a single hint of excess ornamentation. I see no jewelry on anyone. Nothing unnecessary. Nothing indulgent.
Even their hair is styled with meticulous precision, the men’scropped close, the women’s either bound in tightly coiled braids or twisted into severe buns, nonetheless covered with a coif. No loose strands. No softness.
And none of them makes a sound.
If not for the methodical clicks of their polished boots against the pristine marble floor, I might believe them to be statues rather than people. Their expressions remain carefully neutral, not a single whisper exchanged between them. Even their bows, as we pass them in the corridor, are identical, dipping their heads at the same precise angle before straightening in unison.
Podrosa’s castle reflects the strictness of its people. The walls, made of pale limestone, are unadorned, save for banners of the royal crest. No paintings. No unnecessary embellishments. The floors are pristine marble, so polished, they gleam under the chandelier’s glow, and every door we pass is of thick, dark wood reinforced with iron. Even the guards standing at their posts appear sculpted from stone, eyes forward, hands firm on the hilts of their swords.
The grandeur is undeniable, but it is an imposing kind of beauty, meant to inspire obedience rather than awe.
And it makes me want to fucking squirm.
As we approach the great hall, the enormous doors are pushed open in perfect synchrony, revealing the thrones at the far end of the chamber. King Harold and Queen Agatha sit with absolute authority, their attire mirroring their subjects—structured, impeccable, and utterly devoid of warmth.
“Your Majesties,” Princess Orida announces, her arm sweeping wide. “King Silas Copperhammer, Queen Eleanor, and the Hederan court.”
