King Torin sat upon his majestic throne, a deep frown carved into his weathered face. The golden light of the setting sun streamed through the tall stained-glass windows, casting detailed patterns across the marble floor. Yet even the beauty of the moment did little to lift the weight pressing heavily on his chest.
A guard approached with measured steps, bowing low before extending a scroll. "My lord, a message from the Northern Clan," he said, his voice steady, though a delicate shiver betrayed the tension in the air.
At the word Northern, Torin's jaw tightened. He groaned, rising slowly to his full, towering height. His dark hair, streaked with gray, flowed past his shoulders like a stormcloud. Taking the scroll from the guard, his fingers brushed the parchment with a heaviness that made silence thicken like fog.
As he read, his features darkened.
Moments later, Duke, his son, entered the throne room. Young and noble in stature, his eyes held a mix of concern and curiosity. "What is it, Father?"
Torin didn't look up. "It's nothing, son."
But Duke wasn't fooled. "The look on your face says otherwise."
Torin's response was a grunt, dismissing his son's concern. "Present Elara before me," he ordered suddenly, his voice sharp as steel.
Not long after, Elara entered. She moved like wind before a storm—poised, calm, yet electric. Her eyes locked with Torin's, unflinching.
"Father," Duke began, sensing the tension, "if this is about—"
"Silence," Torin cut in, raising a hand.
He stood taller, gaze piercing. "Seven days from now, you will marry my son," he declared to Elara.
Her reaction was immediate.
In one swift, defiant motion, she stepped forward and spat—hard—into the king's face.
Gasps echoed through the throne room.
Torin's hand rose like a tempest and struck her across the cheek. She stumbled back, fire in her eyes, defiance in her soul.
"Father!" Duke shouted, aghast.
"Leave my sight!" Torin thundered.
Duke rushed to Elara's side, helping her to her feet. She resisted his touch, but he didn't relent. He guided her from the throne room, torn between blood and love.
---
In Duke's chambers, the air was tense with unspoken words. Elara's cheek was flushed from the blow, but her spirit remained unbroken.
"What do you want from me?" she demanded, arms folded, eyes blazing.
Duke hesitated. "Your… your love," he said, heart pounding.
She narrowed her gaze. "I ask again—what do you really want?"
He stepped forward and knelt before her. "I love you, Elara. I want nothing more than to spend my life with you. I promise to cherish you—every day, every moment."
She looked down at him, searching for falsehood. There was none.
"The moment you walked through the palace gates, I felt it," Duke whispered. "But I'll leave you to rest."
As he rose, her hand caught his. He turned.
"What I met first wasn't you," she said softly, stepping closer. "It was your heart. You're not like Torin."
Duke gently wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close. "My father is a good man," he said, voice low.
Her eyes shimmered. "No. He isn't. He beheaded my father."
The pain in her voice pierced him. He held her close.
"I know," he whispered, loosening his embrace only to look into her eyes. Then, he kissed her.
Their lips met with urgency and longing. Her hands found his hair, and their world melted away.
He lifted her, carrying her to the bed with reverence. She wrapped herself around him, their eyes never breaking contact.
"You want revenge on my family," Duke whispered. "If I am on that list, I'll die in your arms, Elara. As your husband. Because I love you."
She trembled with the weight of his words, but in his arms, she felt peace.
"It's okay," he said gently, drawing her closer. Her head rested against his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heart.
---
Days passed. And then one evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Elara made her choice.
She would no longer be a prisoner—neither in body nor spirit.
She walked through the palace corridors with silent purpose, catching whispers of betrayal. Discontent among servants. Hatred for the crown.
In a secret corner of the kitchen, she overheard enough to understand: a plot against Duke was in motion. And the face behind it was one she recognized.
Later that night, she stormed into Duke's chambers. "We need to talk," she said, voice urgent.
He led her to the private moonlit garden.
"What is it?" he asked.
"A meeting was held without your knowledge. Treachery brews within your palace walls."
His eyes widened slightly. "Who?"
"Men in your own court," she replied. "I don't know all of them… but I recognized one."
Duke stepped closer, concern written across his face. "Why tell me?"
She held his gaze. "Because you're the only one who's shown me true love."
"Elara," he said gently, reaching for her hands.
"I've lost too much already," she whispered fiercely. "Not this time."
He squeezed her hand. "Then we fight together."
She nodded, her resolve as strong as his. The moonlight framed them like a blessing.
"I love you," Duke said, brushing her cheek with his thumb. "And I can't wait to be married to you."
He pulled her into a kiss—deep, tender, and full of fire.