I never wanted this crown.\n\nI stand at the edge of the Grand Atrium, my dress a cage of silver thread and ancestral guilt. Below, the court gathers—faces sharp with expectation. Tonight, I meet my betrothed: Prince Dain Dravos, the so-called 'Scorpion of the South.' They say he’s killed three lovers in fits of jealous rage. They say his Pulse is unstable, that he burns through magic like wildfire.\n\nAnd now I’m supposed to marry him.\n\nThe doors open. He walks in alone—no entourage, no fanfare. Tall, lean, draped in black velvet with a crimson sash. His eyes lock onto mine, not with arrogance, but warning.\n\nThen he smiles. Cold. Calculated.\n\n'Lovely,' he drawls, voice cutting through the silence. 'They sent me a martyr.'\n\nI step forward, heart pounding. 'And they sent me a murderer.'\n\nHe laughs—low, dangerous. 'Prove it.'\n\nA servant approaches with a goblet. The toast. The ritual. One sip seals the alliance.\n\nBut Dain doesn’t reach for it. He looks at me. 'Would you rather die than drink?'\n\nI hesitate.\n\nThe court watches. The future hangs on this moment.