The table before me was covered with a vast map of the Kingdom of Draga. Mountains guarded the west, the sea stretched endlessly to the north, and the River Aresina wound like a silver serpent along the south. We were blessed by nature herself. Yet even those divine fortifications could no longer hold the Imperial Army at bay.
One of my southern vassals had betrayed me. They lowered the bridge and welcomed the invaders across. Now the Imperial banners fly within sight of the capital's walls.
They've taken the villagers outside the city as hostages—as if they know me, know how much I cherish my people. So I sent a messenger under a white flag, promising to meet their demands. Cowardly, perhaps, but better my pride wounded than innocent blood spilled.
That was an hour ago. The waiting gnawed at me. My thoughts had already played out every grim possibility.
The man who volunteered to bear the message was my dearest friend—General Salime. We'd grown up together, two children chasing each other through the castle corridors. His hair was a vivid red, like his father's, and his courage burned just as brightly.
"I'm worried," I told him before he left.
He looked at me with eyes the color of polished emeralds and smiled—roughly, as if his beard made it hard for his mouth to soften. He patted his mare's sleek black mane.
"Don't be, my Queen. I'll return with good news," he said, and with practiced grace, mounted and rode off—swift as the wind itself.
I could no longer sit still. Waiting only fed my dread. I feared for Salime, for the captives, for the message he might bring back. But fear solves nothing.
I turned toward the mirror on the wall.
A black-haired, black-eyed woman stared back. Her dress was black as midnight, adorned with silver ornaments that glittered faintly in the torchlight. She looked tired. And she did not look like a queen.
I became Queen when my father died a year ago. I was twenty-one. The crown felt heavier than I had imagined. My older brother—the crown prince—had died eleven years earlier, leaving me as the only heir. My mother passed away a year before my father. After her death, he crumbled into grief, his body following where his heart had gone.
"My sweet child, I'm sorry. This father is sorry," he would whisper each time I visited.
"If you're truly sorry, then don't leave me," I had wanted to scream. "Please, Father, don't leave me."
But I never did. Even when my chest ached to break open with sobs, I stayed silent. I was the Crown Princess—my people's strength. I couldn't afford tears.
And then he was gone. Buried beside my mother, who rested beside my brother. My whole family sleeps together now. I alone remain awake.
I wanted to join them, but I couldn't. I shouldn't. I must be strong. A Queen worthy of her crown.
Yet, as I stared at my reflection, I wasn't sure anymore if I was worthy at all.
The silence of the council chamber shattered when the wooden door burst open.
"My Queen!" a soldier called.
"General Salime has returned!"
I rushed down the stone stairs to the main hall. The familiar steps felt steeper today. My heart hammered as I caught sight of him.
He smiled up at me—but the smile was fragile, strained.
I took my place on the throne, the weight of duty pressing down harder than the gold circlet on my head.
"Speak, General Salime," I said. "What news have you brought?"
He knelt, then rose to face me.
"Reporting to Her Majesty—the Emperor of Selon offers two choices." He hesitated, drawing a deep breath. "Either we fight to the death until one side falls... or the Queen shall marry the Emperor of Selon, and peace will be granted to Draga."
A hush fell over the hall—followed by an eruption of outrage.
"A Draganian marries a Southern brute? Has he lost his mind?" one elder bellowed.
"A crude-blooded bastard dares to covet Dragon blood? He must be dreaming!" shouted another.
The hall filled with fury and echoing voices. I let them rage. They had the right.
I never shared their prejudice. I didn't believe Southerners were beneath us, but the elders did—and their conviction had left our kingdom isolated in the far north. No alliance by marriage had ever been accepted. Draganian blood must remain pure, they said.
That purity didn't mean inbreeding. We simply married only those of the North—commoners or nobles alike—as long as they carried the mark of Dragon blood: black hair and black eyes.
I was once engaged to a man chosen by the elders, a merchant from the eastern lands who had settled here years ago. He fit their image perfectly.
The Emperor, from what I'd heard, was the opposite—blonde-haired, skin like sun-burnished earth, and eyes the color of ash. A true Southerner.
A pulse of pain throbbed behind my temples. I raised a hand, silencing the hall.
"How long do we have to decide?" I asked.
"The Emperor expects a reply by noon tomorrow, my Queen," Salime answered.
Such little time for such a heavy choice.
"We meet again at dawn," I said, dismissing them.
One by one, they filed out, their voices fading into the corridors. I pressed my hand to my brow, feeling the weight of the world settle there.
Only one person remained—Elder Martha, my old nanny and confidant. Her gray hair was bound tightly in a bun, her maroon gown whispering as she approached.
"Rhia," she said quietly, "you cannot marry the Emperor. If you do, the child born between you—"
"I know, Nanny," I cut her off gently. "I know."
The secret our family—and the entire North—had guarded for a thousand years was not one that could ever be broken.
If it was…
The world itself would fall into ruin.