The sun had barely risen over the kingdom of Varnethis, but Prince Bucky Barnes was already awake. He had not slept much the night before—not that he ever did. Rest eluded him like a coward fleeing the battlefield, slipping through his fingers the moment he reached for it. The nightmares made certain of that.

Today, however, there was no time to dwell on them. Today was the beginning of a new kind of war.

The royal families of Varnethis and Solrein were to meet for brunch—a carefully orchestrated gathering meant to present the illusion of unity. A merging of kingdoms, they called it. Bucky called it surrender.

His reflection in the tall mirror stared back at him with cold, unreadable eyes as he fastened the last button of his dark, high-collared tunic. He had foregone armor—no one was to wear it to this meeting—but his posture remained rigid, as though he expected an ambush at any moment. His mid-length hair was neatly brushed back, though a few unruly strands still fell against his forehead. He left them. He was not a prince preoccupied with vanity.

A sharp knock on the door drew his attention.

“Bucky,” came his father’s voice—King John Barnes, a man once as formidable as steel, now tempered with age and the burden of a crumbling kingdom. “It’s time.”

Bucky exhaled slowly before turning on his heel, his boots near-silent against the stone floor. When he pulled open the door, he was met with his father’s assessing gaze. The resemblance between them was unmistakable—though where John’s face was lined with experience, Bucky’s was hardened by something colder. Something deeper.

Beside his father stood Queen Margaret, a regal woman with sharp, perceptive eyes that missed nothing. Her auburn hair was streaked with silver, but she carried herself with the poise of a queen still in her prime. She regarded her son with the same quiet scrutiny she always did, as if searching for fractures in his carefully constructed armor.

“You look presentable,” she said, her voice smooth but devoid of warmth.

Bucky's eyes narrowed. “Presentable?” he repeated with a bitter chuckle, his voice as sharp as a blade. “Is that all I am to you? A piece of furniture you’ve dressed up for the occasion?”

His mother’s lips tightened, but she said nothing.

“I don’t need your approval,” Bucky snapped. “I never did.”

His father’s expression hardened. “James, don’t start.”

Bucky let out a dry laugh. “Don’t start? You’re the ones who’ve already sold me out.” He cast a scathing glance at both of them, the weight of his words carrying the venom of years of resentment. “You’ve already decided this fate for me. A royal merger. A betrothal to that...that woman.”

The name caught in his throat like poison, but he forced it out. “The Princess of Solrein. You’ve handed me over to them. To her.”

His father’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Queen Margaret gave him a look—the kind she reserved for moments when she expected compliance.

“I didn’t ask for this,” Bucky muttered, his eyes flicking away from their gaze. “None of this. And I sure as hell won’t pretend to be grateful for it.”

With that, Bucky turned and walked ahead of them, his steps resounding like thunder in the quiet hall.

Together, they descended the grand staircase of the palace, making their way to the opulent dining hall where the enemy—no, not the enemy, not anymore, he reminded himself with barely concealed disdain—where the royal family of Solrein awaited.

The room was bathed in the golden light of mid-morning, the long dining table set with the finest porcelain and embroidered linens. The scent of fresh bread, spiced meats, and honeyed fruits hung in the air, but Bucky had little appetite.

King Michael was the first to rise from his seat. A man of imposing stature, he carried himself like a ruler who had never once known weakness. His graying beard was neatly trimmed, his royal garments pristine. Beside him, Queen Ximena sat with effortless grace, her dark eyes betraying nothing of her thoughts. She was a woman accustomed to courtly games, a strategist behind a serene mask.

And then there was her.

Bucky did not look at her. Not yet. He already loathed her.

He loathed her because she was the seal upon his kingdom’s surrender, the embodiment of everything he had fought against. She was the bridge they were meant to cross into so-called unity, but all he saw was the gallows.

She was an insult he could not refute. A fate he could not escape.

“Ah, Prince James,” King Michael greeted, his voice rich with something that sounded far too much like satisfaction. “Come, sit. There is much to discuss.”