Chloe.
The palace was chaos. A very polished, silk-wrapped, golden-trimmed chaos.
For the first time in years, the royal courtyard was filled with more carriages than trees. Delegates from all over the continent had begun arriving for the engagement festivities—Velynthia's version of "come see who we're marrying our daughter off to."
Banners of every color flapped from windows, and the air was thick with the scents of imported perfumes, diplomatic tension, and way too much cologne.
I stood at the upper balcony in my third gown of the morning, watching as a gold-trimmed carriage pulled in, announcing yet another set of over-important people with more titles than personality.
"She looks like she's about to leap over the railing and make a run for it," Seraphina said behind me, phone out, fingers dancing over her screen. "Caption: Me, trying to survive royal drama without catching a charge."
I turned just enough to scowl at her. "Sera."
"What?" she blinked innocently. "I'm documenting your descent into madness for historical purposes."
"I don't need history. I need everyone to stop staring at me like I'm some rare bird they can auction off."
"You are a rare bird. A slightly feral, highly sarcastic phoenix with unresolved authority issues." She smiled sweetly. "But a bird nonetheless."
I groaned and leaned against the stone railing. "Is it too late to fake my death?"
"Yes. I already used that excuse last year to get out of a violin recital."
By midday, the receiving hall was flooded with silks, jewels, and the kinds of smiles that made your skin crawl. Courtiers milled around like bored peacocks.
From the northern valleys of Aeridale came Prince Thalen and his delegation, all fur-lined cloaks and cool silver jewelry. Aeridale was known for its icewine and even icier diplomacy. Thalen, in particular, was rumored to have proposed to three different princesses in the last year alone.
He was exactly the kind of man my mother would've loved to marry me to: wealthy, royal, and skilled in exactly zero things except smiling and talking about himself.
I endured his greeting with all the grace I could muster, which is to say I didn't kick him in the shins.
Next came Princess Liora of Revessa, the only child of a Queen with more military victories than lovers. Liora was beautiful, sharp-eyed, and very clearly sizing up the room for potential conquests—romantic or otherwise.
"I thought you'd be taller," she said to me with a grin, then winked. "But then again, short girls are closer to hell, right?"
Seraphina snorted from behind me. I tried not to smile.
By the time the third royal family entered—this one from some minor western state where everyone apparently wore feathers—I was officially done.
Mother swept past me in a flurry of jewels and orders, muttering things like "smile more" and "your posture, Chloe, for heaven's sake."
I smiled. I stood straight.
And I fantasized about tripping into the punch bowl.
It wasn't until I caught a glimpse of obsidian through the crowd that my spine straightened for real.
Kieran.
He entered without fanfare, no elaborate entourage, no trumpet. Just a steady, deliberate walk and that impossible presence that made people step aside before they even realized it.
The room, once buzzing with foreign chatter, quieted like someone had flipped a switch.
People turned. Whispered. Watched.
And Kieran?
He didn't care.
He walked past them like they were set pieces in a play he wasn't impressed by. His eyes scanned the room once—only once—and landed squarely on me.
Not on the princes or princesses. Not on the king. Me.
I didn't move. Couldn't. My entire body had gone hot and cold at once.
When he reached me, he gave a curt nod to my father, a brief one to my mother, and then looked at me with that strange softness that only I seemed to get.
"You look… tolerable," he said quietly.
I blinked. "That's your version of a compliment?"
"It's my version of trying to be charming."
"Try harder."
He leaned just a little closer. "I am."
It wasn't long before the small talk resumed around us and guests began trying their luck at conversation.
Which was exactly when Mirelle decided to make her grand entrance.
Girl did NOT know how to give up, with her perfume strong enough to declare war.
And right now, she was strutting toward us in a gown so tight I could hear it gasping for air.
"Your Highness," she said, voice dripping like overripe fruit. "I must say, Caelorth breeds its princes quite... well."
Kieran didn't even blink. "We breed our warhorses well, too."
I nearly choked. Seraphina wheezed.
But Mirelle, bless her oblivious heart, persisted.
"I was just thinking," she said, placing a hand on his arm—bold move—"you must be dreadfully bored with all these political gatherings. Perhaps I could offer a more... entertaining tour of Veylinthia?"
My blood froze. Not from jealousy—no, no. From secondhand embarrassment.
Kieran looked down at her hand, then at her.
"Remove it," he said flatly.
She blinked. "What?"
His voice didn't rise. Didn't need to. "Your hand. Remove it, or I will."
Mirelle snatched her fingers back like she'd touched fire.
And I?
I smiled.
"Oh Mirelle," I said sweetly. "You poor thing. I think you confused fiancé with free sample."
Seraphina screamed behind me. Not literally. But spiritually.
Mirelle flushed crimson and stormed off, heels clicking with angry precision.
Once she was gone, Kieran arched a brow at me. "That was unnecessary."
"You're right," I said brightly. "I should've waited until she actually cried."
He huffed something like a laugh. "You're terrifying."
"Thank you."
There was a pause.
Then: "But also... impressive."
Later that night, I sat on the edge of my bed, dress half-undone, crown abandoned on the table, feet sore and heart buzzing.
Kieran hadn't stayed long at the gathering. He never did. Just long enough to make his presence known and his disinterest clearer.
But his words stayed with me.
So did the way everyone had stared.
Not just at him.
At us.
As if we were already a unit. A threat. A kingdom in the making.
And maybe we were.
Not the soft, fairy tale kind.
Something harder. Sharper.
Beautiful in a way that could cut you open.
But gods, didn't that sound a little thrilling?