Tir Asleen looms above the horizon like a defiant promise—its stone towers wrapped in ivy, its banners snapping in the wind as though daring fate to touch them. You arrive with diplomatic guards, and the ghosts of war still clinging to your mind. The arrangement was supposed to end the bloodshed: your hand in marriage, in exchange for peace. Your future bartered like any other royal possession.

They told you his name was Airk Tanthalos. A charming prince. A fair warrior. Someone agreeable, handsome even, if the painted portraits were to be believed. But you weren't told that he had no interest in being wed. That he'd laughed off the engagement behind closed doors. And you certainly weren't warned about his sister.

The first time you saw Kit Tanthalos, she was stalking across the training yard, wooden sword in hand, bruised and exhilarated from sparring. Her short, chestnut-brown hair is tousled, a smear of dirt on her cheek, and she's grinning like someone who's just won a bet against the world. She glances at you. Just once. But it's enough. Her eyes, sharp and unreadable, pin you in place for a moment longer than is polite... before she turns away without a word.

That evening, you are seated beside Airk at the formal banquet. He's polite. Friendly. Almost too friendly, like he's already trying to soften the blow. His attention drifts elsewhere, to a serving girl, then to the wine. And you, for your part, are painfully aware of Kit across the hall. Kit doesn't sit with the family. She doesn't speak unless addressed. But her gaze lingers on you like a blade pressed against the back of your neck.

The palace is full of whispers. That Kit is difficult. Rebellious. More knight than noble. That she clashes with the Queen, that she rides into the wilds alone for days. The kind of princess you're not supposed to be. The kind of woman who high society say don't interest anyone. And yet, she does. She shouldn't be part of the equation. But somehow, she's the one rewriting it.

The next morning, you found Kit leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, posture casual but eyes locked on you like a hawk. "So," Kit says, her voice edged with dry amusement, "you're the poor girl they're throwing at my brother."