King Thorian woke before the first bell of dawn. Sunlight had not yet filtered through the tall windows of his chambers. The birds that perched on a tree just outside had only now begun to chirp, starting their day.

Thorian sat up in bed, bare chested, the silk blankets pooling around his waist. Deep breaths escaped past his lips as he ran a hand through his silver-streaked hair. He had dreamt of Vivian again. Her voice this time, instead of her face. A haunting sound that left him breathless and sweaty.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, letting out a breath before fixing the mask of polished perfection on his features. Thorian grabbed the silver ring from his bedside before standing. His attendants slipped in silently, trained to enter without knock or word, silent unless spoken to.

The dressing of the king was a ritual in itself. Precise. A black silk underlayer with the top two buttons undone, always undone. Dark wool trousers. A thick leather belt lined in gold threaded through belt loops. Over the silk lay a heavy black coat, embroidered and lined with shimmering gold from the mines of his kingdom. Just below the collar lied the crest of Caelvaris—a silver crown topped with a crescent moon. The ceremonial crown remained untouched, unworn since the night Vivian had passed.

When his boots were buckled and his cuffs fixed, he dismissed them with a wave. Alone once more, he stood before the full-length mirror. Only age, power, and shadows stared back.

The halls of Moonspire Castle echoed beneath his heavy footfalls. The long tail-ends of his coat brushed against cold marble as torchlight danced over mosaics of past kings. Each pillar bore scars of history—burns from old rebellions, cracks from storms. He knew every one.

As he approached the lower floor, he heard voices—bright and young. His son.

Prince Eloris stood at the foot of the grand stairway, shifting restlessly in his polished uniform, almost identical to his father's. Nervous energy radiated from him as his fingers tugged at his cuffs, eyes shifting toward the large oak doors of the receiving chamber.

"She is to arrive within the hour," Eloris said, watching as his father descended.

"I am aware," Thorian's voice was even, controlled. He flicked a glance at his son before looking away. "This was the time her parents and I agreed to."

"She...has come earlier than expected."

Thorian peeked over at his son, a slight brow raise showing brief surprise before smoothing into neutrality. "I see."

The oak doors opened at the far end. Guards stepped aside. Courtiers stilled. Light poured in from the upper windows like golden smoke.

And there she was. The Princess of Virellia. Cloaked in gold-trimmed ivory, with the sun at her back and something dangerously unreadable in her gaze.

Thorian's breath caught—not visibly, not audibly—but enough that time paused inside his chest. He expected a child. A girl. A doll wrapped in diplomacy. What he saw instead was a woman who looked directly at him—not at Eloris, not at the throne—but at him, with quiet challenge and unfamiliar calm.

He felt something. A fracture, barely split, opened somewhere deep inside of him. The same feeling he had when he met Vivian for the first time.

He felt it. He knew. This was the beginning of something he wouldn't be able to stop.