The sky above Arkenfall was crisp and pale, its morning sun filtered through the silver-hued clouds that so often kissed the capital's spires. From atop the western balcony of the King's Tower, two men stood deep in discussion — or what passed for it when Lord Roran was involved.
Lord Gareth, King's Hand and commander of court order, stood stiff-backed in his heavy cloak, watching the main road with the kind of intensity one might reserve for a siege.
"He's late," Gareth muttered, arms folded, brows drawn tight as drawn leather straps. "Today of all days, and the King is still not within the walls."
"Gods be merciful," Roran groaned, leaning lazily against the balustrade with a silver fig in hand. "You've been repeating that for the last hour. If you say 'he's late' one more time, I'll hurl myself over this ledge just to escape it."
Gareth cut him a sharp glance. "His Majesty was meant to be present this morning. The entire court is assembled. The bride has arrived. The banns were signed. And yet—no king."
Roran took a slow bite of his fig. "You know he's the King, yes? He arrives when he wishes. The rest of us just swirl our cloaks and pretend it was all part of the plan."
Gareth did not look amused.
"You'll worry yourself into the grave at this pace," Roran added with a chuckle. "Truly, Gareth. If you wrinkle that forehead any further, it'll swallow your eyes."
The Lord Hand gave him a sidelong glare. "You treat this too lightly."
"And you treat everything like a bloodless battle," Roran replied, waving the fruit. "You forget who we serve. Damon Dragarth doesn't tremble before ceremony. He walks into it like a storm and makes the ceremony bend to him."
"I've no doubt," Gareth muttered, though a faint twitch in his cheek betrayed a reluctant smile.
It was then the distant thunder of hooves drew their attention.
Both men turned.
From the long stretch of the East Road, just beyond the capital's gates, came the shadowed dust of fast riders. A dozen guards flanked three black-cloaked men, the standard of the King's Banner fluttering in their midst.
A castle rider burst into the courtyard below, leaping from his saddle and ascending the steps two at a time.
"Lord Hand!" he called breathlessly, bowing with one fist to his chest. "The King is in sight. He'll be at the castle within the hour."
Gareth exhaled, short and sharp. "Finally."
Roran smirked. "There. You can unclench. The Storm Lord returns."
Gareth turned on his heel with purpose. "I'll see to his reception. And the High Justicar will need to be informed."
As the Hand swept off in measured haste, Roran remained, smiling after him. He popped the last of the fig into his mouth.
"Honestly," he muttered to himself, brushing juice from his thumb. "The man needs a hobby."
And with that, he turned and made his way down into the heart of Arkenfall.
********************
In the Queen's Wing, the hush of silks and the soft shuffle of slippers filled the chamber like music. Neriah stood at the heart of it all — a vision in lilac and moonlight.
Neriah wore a deep purple silk trimmed with soft silver threading, shaped to her form like whispered magic. The neckline framed her collarbones with grace; the sleeves flowed down like ripples from the stars. No embroidery screamed for attention, but the gown whispered elegance with every shimmer beneath the sun's farewell.
Her hair had been twisted into waves of red fire, cascading over one shoulder, pins of onyx and pearl nestled throughout. She looked like something pulled out of a song — a painting too soft to touch.
A dozen maids had surrounded her mere moments ago, fussing, fretting, perfecting every pleat and coil and curl. But Neriah, cheeks flushed from all the attention, had lifted a hand.
"Thank you, all of you," she said, her voice warm and almost shy, though her eyes sparkled with mirth.
There was a quiet swell of smiles and curtsies.
One of the older seamstresses even sniffled. "You'll melt hearts, my lady."
"The court won't know what hit them," Gwen added brightly, arms crossed with pride.
Laughter scattered like dandelion seeds, and Neriah chuckled too, even as a strange weight settled beneath her ribs. It was all happening. It was truly happening.
One by one, the maids filed out, still murmuring blessings and sweet praises, until only Gwen remained — Gwen, who never truly left unless physically dragged.
She was already busy again, picking invisible lint from the hem of the gown and arranging a loose curl near Neriah's ear.
"Oh, you should've seen the way those other girls looked when I told them you were marrying the King!" Gwen said, wagging her head. "I thought one of them was going to faint. It's not every day a woman goes from pinewood paths to royal thrones, my lady. They'll be talking about this for years. You're already a legend — and you haven't even taken your vows yet!"
Neriah only smiled faintly and sat down before the vanity. The mirror reflected someone she wasn't sure she knew — poised, regal, beautiful… and quietly terrified.
Gwen didn't notice.
"Speaking of vows," Gwen continued, spinning around with a parchment in hand, "there are a few lines you'll need to remember for tonight. Don't worry, I wrote them out nice and neat. You just have to say them after the High Justicar speaks, and—"
She turned to find the chair empty.
"...my lady?"
Silence.
The chamber stretched wide and quiet, the golden glow from the arched windows throwing soft shadows across the polished stone floor.
Gwen blinked. Then squinted toward the open balcony doors where the purple curtains swayed with the breeze.
"My lady?" she called again, stepping forward with her parchment clutched like a sword.
She peered out across the marble balcony.
Nothing.
Gwen's eyes widened. "Saints and skies," she muttered under her breath.
******************
Neriah wasn't running.
Not really.
She just… needed air.
A moment. A breath away from the too-tight laces and the overwhelming scent of perfumes and rose oils and Gwen's endless chattering about how today, today, today was the day she would be wed to a man she hadn't yet met.
The halls of Arkenfall stretched wide and echoing — stone walls dappled with golden candlelight, tapestries of old wars and long-dead kings hanging like ghosts. She walked quietly, her slippered feet making almost no sound against the marble, her gown whispering at her ankles like the tide.
No guards stopped her. No maids tugged her back. It was strange, how easy it had been to slip away. Perhaps everyone assumed she'd gone to pray. Or cry.
She considered both.
But instead, her steps paused at the curve of a high-arched corridor — where a grand map of the castle hung mounted upon the stone like a relic of war. It was detailed, ancient, beautifully inked — every tower, every hallway, every courtyard etched in silver thread.
She stood before it, blinking slowly.
If she memorized the paths… the gates… the stables…
She shook her head.
Ridiculous. There would be guards at every corner. And she was no thief in the night. Still, her fingers rose slightly, tracing a route that looped through the old gardens and—
"If you're thinking of fleeing," a deep voice said behind her, "this here would be your best route."
Neriah jumped.
She turned sharply, startled and halfway ready to scold — until she saw him.
And forgot her words entirely.
Gods.
The man was — there was no other word for it — dashing. Dangerously so. He was tall, his build broad and commanding, like a figure carved from storm and shadow. Dark hair curled at his collar, his eyes a wicked shade of grey-blue that held a thousand secrets. He wore a dark tunic lined with silver trim, tailored to his frame with the sort of detail only royalty or extremely wealthy men could afford — though no crest adorned his chest.
No crown.
Yet something about him… felt sovereign.
He stood with easy confidence, hands clasped behind his back, studying her like he might study a strange and beautiful painting. Not like a lord would study a lady. No. This gaze was sharper than that.
"I wasn't planning to flee," Neriah said stiffly, lifting her chin.
His mouth twitched.
"A pity," he replied. "I was rather hoping for a bit of excitement."
Neriah crossed her arms. "Do you always accost women in dark hallways?"
He leaned slightly forward, voice lowered conspiratorially. "Only the ones staring at escape routes with wild eyes, my lady."
She blinked. "You think I have wild eyes?"
"Only slightly," he teased, then added, "There's a whole debate in the royal court over what defines 'wild'. I suspect you'll shift the scales."
He was infuriating.
And charming.
And come to think of it - why did he look exactly like Gwen's outrageous description?
Dashing. Ridiculously handsome. Too fine for his own good.
Neriah swallowed. Her heart tapped nervously against her ribs.
He couldn't be—
No. No crown. Besides, Gwen said he was away.
Still, her curiosity gnawed.
"You're with the Council then?" she asked slowly.
His smile deepened. "In a manner of speaking."
"Oh," she said, trying not to frown. "What's your name?"
There was a pause.
That maddening smile widened.
But before he could open his mouth, a voice rang out from down the hall — clipped, reverent, and far too loud:
"Your Majesty!"