The morning after the failed feast dawned gray and heavy, snow falling in thick, silent sheets outside the palace windows. Elara woke with a headache that pulsed behind her eyes, the taste of defeat still bitter on her tongue. She had barely slept, replaying Cassian's piercing stare, the way it had unraveled her resolve in an instant. Her plan lay in ruins, but worse than that was the creeping realization that part of her had hesitated—not out of fear, but because something in his gaze had felt almost… human.
She couldn't afford such weakness.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. One of her Valmont attendants, Lady Seraphine, entered carrying a sealed letter bearing the golden sunburst seal of her homeland. Elara's heart lurched. Home. The word alone brought a rush of warmth and ache.
"Your Highness," Seraphine said quietly, curtsying. "This arrived by raven at first light. From the palace at Valmont."
Elara broke the seal with trembling fingers.
The letter was from her mother, Queen Isolde, written in the elegant, looping script Elara knew so well.
My dearest Elara,
We think of you every moment. Your father paces the throne room like a caged lion, growling at advisors who dare suggest the alliance is anything less than perfect. Your brothers send their love—and their swords, should you ever need them. Rowan especially insists I tell you he has already sharpened his favorite blade "just in case the Arcturian snake tries anything."
We know this is not the marriage you dreamed of. We know the whispers about Prince Cassian. But know this: you are not alone. The court here still speaks your name with pride. The people light candles in the chapels for your safety. If the day comes when you must choose between duty and survival… choose survival. Come home to us, my girl, however you must.
Your loving mother, Queen Isolde of Valmont
Elara pressed the parchment to her chest, tears blurring the ink. She could almost smell the lavender fields of Valmont, hear the laughter echoing through the sunlit corridors of Sunspire Palace. For a moment she allowed herself to remember—not the cold stone of Arcturus, but the warmth of her family.
Her father, King Aldric, was a bear of a man—broad-shouldered, bearded, with a laugh that could shake the rafters. He ruled with a firm but open hand, his temper legendary but always followed by apologies delivered with bear hugs. Unlike the iron-fisted Theron of Arcturus, Aldric believed in counsel. He listened to his advisors, his people, even his children. When Elara had protested the betrothal, he hadn't dismissed her. He had knelt before her, taken her hands, and said, "I would burn the world before I let it hurt you, little sun. But sometimes the world must be saved first."
Then there was her mother, Queen Isolde—grace incarnate, with silver-streaked auburn hair and eyes the same startling blue as Elara's. Isolde had taught her everything: how to read a room, how to wield kindness like a blade, how to love fiercely even when the heart ached. She was the heart of Valmont, the one who visited orphanages, who sat with grieving widows, who made sure no child went hungry in their borders. Where Cassian's family had been culled like weeds, Isolde had nurtured every branch of hers.
And her brothers.
Elara smiled through the tears as their faces rose in her mind.
The eldest, Prince Rowan, twenty-six and built like a siege engine. He was the kingdom's champion jouster, loud, protective, and utterly hopeless at courtly intrigue. "Politics is for people too cowardly to fight," he'd declare, then promptly lose every debate in the council chamber. Yet his loyalty was ironclad. When news of the marriage reached him, he had punched a hole through a stone wall and roared that he would ride to Arcturus himself and "drag my sister home over my shoulder if I have to."
Next came Prince Thorne, twenty-three, lean and sharp-eyed, the strategist of the family. Where Rowan charged, Thorne planned. He spoke little, observed everything, and had already mapped three different escape routes for Elara should the alliance sour. He had slipped her a tiny dagger disguised as a hairpin the night before she left, whispering, "If anyone lays a hand on you without permission, bury this in his eye and run."
Then there was the youngest brother, Prince Lysander—only nineteen, still more boy than man, with tousled golden curls and an infectious grin. He was the dreamer, the poet, the one who wrote songs about Elara's beauty and played them on his lute until the entire court begged for mercy. He had cried openly when she departed, clinging to her skirts like he was five again. "Promise you'll come back, Ellie," he'd sobbed. "Promise you won't let the monster keep you."
Monster.
That word suited Cassian too well.
Elara rose and crossed to the window, watching the snow blanket the gardens. Valmont was light and color—golden stone walls, blooming orchards even in winter thanks to clever glasshouses, laughter ringing through open courtyards. Arcturus was shadow and silence—black spires piercing a leaden sky, corridors that swallowed sound, people who spoke in hushed tones and never met anyone's eyes for long.
Her family had raised her to value life, to cherish bonds, to believe that strength came from unity rather than elimination. Cassian's family—his father King Theron especially—had taught the opposite. Theron still lived, a gaunt, silver-haired shadow of a man confined to his sickbed, but even from his chambers he ruled through fear. Courtiers said he approved of Cassian's purges; some whispered he had encouraged them.
Elara thought of the portraits she had glimpsed in the palace halls: stern-faced siblings with eyes too similar to Cassian's, all dead now. No warmth in those painted faces, no laughter frozen in time. Just calculation. Just ambition.
A soft rap at the door pulled her from her reverie.
"Your Highness?" It was Mira again, eyes wide. "The royal family of Arcturus requests your presence in the lesser throne room. They wish to… formally welcome you."
Elara's stomach twisted. She had met King Theron only once, briefly, when she first arrived. He had regarded her like livestock being appraised. Queen Dowager Morgana—Cassian's mother—had been absent entirely, said to be in seclusion since the last "tragedy."
She dressed quickly in Valmont blue trimmed with silver—a small act of defiance—and followed Mira through the winding corridors.
The lesser throne room was smaller than the great hall, but no less intimidating. Black marble floors, crimson banners, a single raised dais with two thrones. King Theron sat upon the larger one, frail but regal, his eyes sharp despite the pallor of illness. Beside him stood Cassian, silent and watchful. To Theron's right was Queen Dowager Morgana—tall, severe, her black hair streaked with white, her expression carved from ice.
And there, half-hidden in the shadows near a side door, was Prince Draven—Cassian's only surviving half-brother, born to a lesser consort years after the purges began. Draven was twenty-one, pale and thin, with nervous eyes that darted everywhere but at his brother. Rumors said Cassian had spared him because he posed no threat—too weak, too timid, more interested in books than thrones.
Theron's voice rasped like dry leaves. "Princess Elara. Welcome, formally, to what will soon be your home."
Elara curtsied, the motion perfect but cold. "Your Majesty."
Morgana spoke next, her tone clipped. "You carry yourself well for a girl raised among flowers and festivals. Valmont has softened its royals, it seems."
Elara met her gaze evenly. "Valmont has taught its royals to value life, Your Majesty. Not merely to preserve it at any cost."
A flicker of something—amusement?—crossed Cassian's face, but he said nothing.
Theron coughed, a wet, rattling sound. "Enough. The alliance is sealed. The wedding proceeds in three weeks. You will learn our ways, girl. Or you will suffer them."
Elara felt Cassian's eyes on her again, that same unnerving intensity. She refused to look at him.
Instead she thought of Rowan's sword, Thorne's maps, Lysander's songs, her mother's quiet strength, her father's bear hugs.
They were light.
This place was shadow.
And yet here she stood, caught between.
As the audience ended and she was dismissed, Cassian fell into step beside her in the corridor.
"Your family sounds… noisy," he observed quietly.
"They are alive," she replied. "That's the difference."
He tilted his head, studying her. "Alive can be loud. And fragile."
She stopped, turning to face him fully. "And dead is silent. Is that better?"
For once, the psychopath prince had no immediate answer.
He simply watched her walk away, green eyes thoughtful in the dim light.
Elara didn't look back.
But inside, the question burned brighter than ever.
Is love really for me… when everything I love comes from a world he can never understand?