Marriage?
The word crashed through Lara's mind like a warhorn.
She blinked, still facing the Queen, though her vision had narrowed. The clink of goblets, the shifting of embroidered sleeves, the subtle intake of breath from every noble in the room all of it blurred into a muffled hum.
Her pulse pounded behind her ears.
Marriage?
To who?
Her eyes darted sideways to Sarisa.
Still as a statue.
No flinch. No protest. Just silence wrapped in poise.
Was this decided without her consent? Lara's stomach turned. Or worse… did she know?
And if she did—
Lara's thoughts tangled.
Would it be her?
Was that why the Queen had looked at her so coldly earlier? Had all the tension between them been masking a plan?
Somehow the idea didn't make sense.
And yet—
Her mind raced through every possibility in a desperate, looping monologue.
Is this a political move? An alliance? Would they name me the spouse to neutralize my influence? Keep me tethered? Or maybe—maybe Sarisa asked for it. Maybe she chose me.
But even as she thought it, a part of her already knew the answer.
No.
It wasn't her.
She felt it in the quiet between heartbeats. Felt it in Sarisa's stillness. In the way her fingers hadn't moved an inch since the Queen's declaration.
She didn't look at Lara.
Didn't glance. Didn't speak.
Just waited.
Like a soldier accepting orders she couldn't disobey.
Lara's hands curled in her lap.
And that was when the door opened.
Every head turned as a tall man stepped through the gilded archway.
His posture was relaxed, confident—not cocky, but polished, like someone who knew how to walk into a room and own it.
He was dressed in deep navy formal robes embroidered with constellations and stars, subtle enough to be tasteful, but expensive enough to scream royal tailor.
His brown skin glowed faintly in the lamplight, smooth and unmarred. His hair, in a cascade of deep ocean blue, was pulled back in an elegant braid that brushed his spine.
But what stood out most were his eyes.
Golden.
Not warm honey, not burnished brass—golden, like twin coins glinting beneath the sun, sharp and almost feline in their precision.
He smiled.
Not wide. Just enough.
Lara knew the type.
Handsome in a way that tried to be humble.
Not enough to charm her.
But enough to irritate her.
The Queen gestured graciously. "Prince Vaelen, thank you for joining us. Please sit beside Sarisa."
Lara barely registered the words.
Because the Queen turned to her.
"Ex-Captain ," she said smoothly, "if you would kindly shift down one seat."
Lara stared.
Just for a second.
It wasn't a request.
With the eyes of the court on her, she forced herself to rise, smile thin and polite, and step away from Sarisa's side.
As she did, Vaelen passed her with a faint nod. "Lara."
She didn't reply.
He slid into the seat next to Sarisa.
Lara sat in the next one down, feeling the cold of the chair seep through her.
Prince Vaelen turned slightly. "Lady Sarisa. It is a pleasure."
Sarisa inclined her head. "Prince Vaelen."
"I've heard much about you." His tone was light. Flattering. Not excessive—but practiced. "I've long admired your leadership and clarity. And of course, your beauty precedes you."
Lara didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
She stared at her plate as if the silver carvings of stars and wings might rearrange into a rational explanation for what was happening.
Sarisa didn't reply immediately.
When she did, her voice was soft, unreadable. "You are too kind."
Vaelen chuckled. "Only honest."
The dinner resumed.
But it was no longer a dinner.
It was a stage.
A performance.
The nobles leaned in with renewed interest. One even fanned herself delicately. Another sipped wine and gave Vaelen a look that was part envy, part curiosity, as if wondering what it would be like to catch the attention of the realm's most stoic heir.
And Lara—
She sat in her new seat, one place too far.
Every word between Sarisa and the prince struck like a pebble to the ribs.
Not painful. Not sharp.
Just enough to notice.
Enough to realize something was wrong.
Something inside her chest was off-kilter. Not broken, but… bent.
Vaelen laughed again.
Aliyah whispered something to Kaelith that made the scribe blanch.
Lara didn't hear it.
She watched Sarisa instead.
And it wasn't just the prince that made her stomach knot.
It was Sarisa's silence.
The way she listened politely. Smiled faintly. Responded with careful words and nothing more.
She was acting.
No—masking.
Lara knew that mask.
She'd seen it on battlefields. In briefings. During interrogations. It was the face Sarisa wore when she didn't want anyone to see she was bleeding.
And it made Lara's skin prickle.
She didn't know what this arrangement was.
But she knew Sarisa didn't choose it.
And that knowledge—
It hurt.
More than it should.
More than Lara expected.
Why?
She didn't have the words yet.
But gods help her—she wanted to punch something.
Preferably a noble.
Possibly a prince.
The rest of the dinner passed in a slow, syrupy haze. Courses came and went—sea-salted meats, delicate breads, and sparkling fruit wine that Lara barely tasted.
Sarisa never looked her way. Vaelen continued with gentle compliments and occasional quips that Lara was almost sure were meant to make her feel lesser, even if they came wrapped in gold-leaf etiquette.
When the final toast was raised, Lara didn't lift her glass.
She watched Sarisa.
Watched the way she smiled for the crowd, not for herself.
And when the Queen stood to dismiss the gathering, Lara rose too—but instead of following the flow of nobles toward the exit, she took one step sideways.
Toward Sarisa.
Her voice was quiet. Controlled.
"Can we talk? Privately."
Sarisa's golden-tattooed fingers curled just slightly at her sides.
But she nodded.
"Yes."