"Your Majesty!"
Neriah stiffened.
The words hung in the air like a thunderclap.
She turned slowly to the voice. Then back to the man in front of her.
He winced a little, the smile twisting into something like sheepish amusement. "Well. So much for dramatic timing."
Neriah took half a step back. Her mouth parted. Her cheeks burned.
"You're—?"
"Damon Dragarth," he said gently. "Storm Lord. King of the Bannerlands." He gave a slight bow, playful but not mocking.
Then added with a wink, "But I liked it better when you thought I was a councilman."
Neriah opened her mouth, then promptly closed it again.
Behind her ribcage, her heart performed a dangerous dance.
The man she had dreaded — the cruel tyrant with a crown of bones — was nothing like the tales. Nothing at all.
And he had just caught her plotting her own escape.
Saints help her.
"Your Majesty!"
The voice rang again — nearer this time.
Neriah's breath caught. She turned toward the approaching figure, a well-dressed man in a rich emerald cloak lined with fur, silver fastenings catching the light. He had a strong jaw, dark eyes that crinkled at the corners, and a curious way of smiling with his whole face — like someone who was very good at pretending not to know everything.
Damon glanced behind him. "Ah. There you are."
The man slowed to a stop just beside them and bowed slightly — not stiffly, but with an easy grace born from long practice.
"Lord Gareth, King's Hand," he said, turning to Neriah with warm civility. "You must be Lady Neriah. Welcome to Arkenfall."
Neriah curtsied lightly, though her legs felt like smoke. "My lord," she said with effort, hoping her voice didn't waver. "It's a pleasure."
Lord Gareth gave a kind smile. "I imagine this is all quite overwhelming. You've only just arrived yesterday."
Neriah let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and gave a faint, nervous laugh. "Yes. It was."
She could still feel the King's gaze. Not hard. Not cruel. But intense. Like he was reading pages she hadn't yet written.
Damon hadn't spoken since Gareth arrived. He was watching her. Like the air around her had taken on new form and fascination.
He didn't hide his gaze. And something in that gaze made her skin burn beneath the collar of her dress.
Gods, is this what Gwen meant?
She looked away, grounding herself in the elegant folds of Lord Gareth's cloak. Human. These people were human. Not monsters. Not shadows lurking in thrones. They were human.
But her heart wouldn't stop its erratic rhythm.
Lord Gareth turned slightly to Damon, who still hadn't moved. "Your Majesty?"
Damon blinked once — like surfacing from some quiet storm. "Hmm?"
"You are staring," Gareth said lightly. "You're going to turn the poor girl to stone."
Before Neriah could find a proper place to bury herself, the soft patter of hurried steps echoed through the corridor.
"My lady!" Gwen skidded into view — red-faced, hair slightly askew, panting from a sprint.
The moment she caught sight of The King and Lord Gareth, her whole body seized. She dropped into a bow so low, her forehead nearly brushed the floor.
"I—I—I didn't know where she went, Your Majesty! Lord Hand, forgive me—I was—I..."
Damon blinked, caught between surprise and laughter.
Neriah turned quickly, composing herself. "It's alright, Gwen. I was just… walking."
Gwen straightened, eyes flicking desperately between the two powerful men like a mouse cornered by hounds.
Neriah stepped forward quickly, her cheeks still warm. "We should go. I—thank you, Your Majesty. Lord Gareth."
She dipped another curtsy and gently took Gwen's arm. The maid all but fled beside her, glancing back only once to ensure she wasn't being followed by swords and chains.
Damon watched them go.
Watched Neriah go.
The light played through her red hair like fire through wine. Even in the simple purple dress, she moved with grace, though he noted the tightness in her shoulders. The uncertainty.
Was that… fear?
He didn't like it.
Gareth said. "You're late. Again. The entire court were eating each other. I nearly punched Lord Vael in the throat just to stay awake."
Damon turned to him at last, his eyes still glinting. "Why didn't you?"
Gareth snorted. "What? You mean punch Lord Vael in the throat?"
"Yes."
Gareth laughed — a sharp, incredulous sound. "Because, as much as the man deserves it, I quite like having morals."
Damon smirked. "Coward."
"Practical," Gareth corrected with mock dignity. "You think keeping this court from setting itself on fire is easy? While you're off chasing slavers and hunting down villains, I'm here babysitting nobles with egos larger than Arkenfall's towers."
Damon gave a low chuckle. "I never asked you to do that."
"You never ask me to do anything," Gareth shot back. "You just disappear and expect everything to still be upright when you return."
"And it always is," Damon said, smug.
"Barely." Gareth clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Come, Your Majesty. Let's get you ready for the last quiet hour of your life."
Damon gave a theatrical sigh. "Gods help me."
"They won't," Gareth said cheerfully, turning. "But I will. With wine."
Together, they disappeared down the corridor.
**********************
The castle had begun to stir in earnest. Torches blazed higher, servants rushed like currents through Arkenfall's many halls, and the scent of burning cedar and mountain roses perfumed the dusk air.
Up in her chamber, Neriah stood by the arched window, staring out at a horizon painted in gold and violet. Her thoughts were a tangle of disbelief and breathless wonder.
She was going to marry a king.
Not the monster she had feared. Not the blade-hearted tyrant her nightmares had conjured.
A man.
A man with eyes like tempered steel and a mouth that knew the shape of sarcasm better than silence. He'd spoken to her like a real person — not like an obligation or a prize, but like someone he wanted to know.
She hadn't stopped thinking about it.
Behind her, Gwen was frantically fluffing out the folds of the ceremonial dress, humming to herself with a kind of manic cheer.
"Oh, he'll faint," Gwen announced confidently. "The moment he sees you in this, I swear he'll drop dead and we'll have to crown you Queen right there on the stones."
Neriah blinked back to the present and glanced at the gown.
It was unlike anything she had ever worn.
Midnight blue, stitched with silver-thread vines that shimmered like frost in candlelight. The sleeves were sheer and delicate, the skirt full and sweeping. It bared her shoulders but not her dignity. It was strong. Regal.
She turned to Gwen. "Do you always talk this much?"
Gwen grinned as she pinned another twist into Neriah's hair. "Only when I'm nervous. Or excited. Or breathing."
Neriah couldn't help it — she smiled. "What about when you sleep?"
"Oh, I talk then, too," Gwen said proudly. "Ask anyone in the maid's quarters."
The laughter that spilled out of Neriah surprised even herself. It was soft and warm and strange. A sound she hadn't expected to hear on the day of her wedding.
"Does the King really like strawberry-scented things?" she asked suddenly.
Gwen's hands paused mid-braid. She tilted her head. "Strawberries?"
"I heard he liked the flower that smelled like it," Neriah said carefully.
"Oh," Gwen chuckled. "That was probably Lady Kaelith's doing. She has the whole court convinced he has a secret weakness for strawberries now. Even the cook's been putting them in his wine."
Neriah raised a brow.
"I mean, he likes them, sure," Gwen said. "But I think Kaelith just enjoys seeing people make fools of themselves. And the King never denies it — that's the worst part. He lets the rumors bloom like weeds."
Neriah smiled faintly. "He seems… different."
Gwen softened. "He is."
There was a knock at the door.
Not the quiet, polite kind — but a sharp rap followed by the unmistakable creak of an opening hinge. Gwen opened her mouth to protest, but the intruder had already swept in with the confidence of someone who belonged everywhere.
"Knock knock," came the voice, bright and wry. "I assume this is where the royal hostage is being held?"
Neriah turned, startled — and found herself staring at a tall, effortlessly elegant woman draped in a wine-red gown that shimmered like dusk. Her hair was dark, braided back with gold rings, and her eyes were full of mischief.
She moved like a dancer. Or a blade.
"Lady Neriah of Halemond, I presume?" the woman asked, stepping fully into the room and bowing with a flourish that somehow managed to be both graceful and sarcastic. "I'm Lady Kaelith. Keeper of the Crown."
Neriah blinked. "It's a pleasure."
"And also the King's sister, if I made add." Kaelith added breezily.
Neriah blinked again.
"But—" She looked slightly baffled. "You don't look alike."
"That's because we're half-siblings," Kaelith said with a grin. "Different mothers. Same father. Same trauma."
Neriah let out a surprised laugh before she could stop herself.
Gwen, forgotten in the corner, clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle a squeal.
Kaelith walked in, not waiting for an invitation, and circled Neriah like a jeweler inspecting a particularly rare gem. Her expression grew exaggeratedly impressed.
"Well," she declared. "You're gorgeous. I mean, they said you were pretty, but this is rude. You're about to make the entire court cry."
Neriah flushed.
"I'm really not—"
"You really are," Kaelith interrupted. "And trust me, I would know. Half the ladies in this castle weep every time they pass a mirror. The other half pretend they don't care. You're about to cause a crisis."
Neriah laughed again — this time more easily.
Kaelith plopped down unceremoniously on the edge of a nearby chair. "So. You're marrying my brother. Brave. Very brave. Some might even say unhinged."
Neriah gave a dry smile. "Not exactly my idea."
"Of course not," Kaelith said, waving it off. "Nothing fun ever is. But — you'll find he's not as terrible as they say. Dangerous, yes. Broody, not at all. But also loyal to the bone, and far too sarcastic to be truly feared. Don't tell him I said that."
"I won't," Neriah murmured.
"And listen," Kaelith said, leaning forward conspiratorially, "after the wedding and everything, I'm giving you a proper tour. I mean the real one. Not the 'this hallway has curtains' nonsense they gave you yesterday. This castle is massive. Has more secret corridors than sense. And the best wine cellar I've ever cried in."
Neriah grinned. "I'd like that."
Kaelith stood, smoothing her gown. "Good. Consider me your guide, your ally, and your unofficial translator for all things Arkenfall. You'll be fine, Neriah. You've got fire. I can smell it."
Neriah straightened slightly, feeling something in her chest shift — like a knot coming loose.
"Thank you," she said softly.
Kaelith winked. "Don't thank me yet. Wait until you meet Lord Vael. Then you'll be begging for my protection."
She turned to go, then paused at the doorway.
"Oh — and breathe, will you?" she added. "You're not walking to your execution. Just into the arms of a dangerously attractive, mildly terrifying king."
And with that, Kaelith was gone — leaving behind a faint trail of perfume, and a wide-eyed bride with the beginning of a smile on her lips.