Lucian barely had time to breathe before Elinor jabbed a tiny finger at his chest, curls bouncing with authority that could shame a queen.
"You promised."
He raised a brow, leaning back in his chair. "Promised what?"
"To take me shopping! For ribbons, and sweets, and—" she held up the stuffed fox like a battle standard, "—a real fox, bigger than this one."
Lucian stared at her for a long, grave second. "A real fox?"
Her nod was solemn, her golden curls catching the light like a crown.
"And Mama agreed?"
"She said, 'If you can convince your brother.' So I did!" Elinor puffed her cheeks like a general announcing victory.
A soft laugh slipped past his lips—quiet, but real. "Fine. You win."
Which was how the heir of Ashthorn—the name that carried iron and oath in every corner of the realm—ended up shackled by silk ribbons and dragged through the market by a five-year-old tyrant in lace.
The heart of Veyra Square roared around them, a tapestry of color and chaos. Merchants sang their wares in voices sharp as bells; bolts of silk spilled like molten sunsets; spices burned the air with heat and honeyed smoke. Lucian moved through it with the detached grace of a blade in a scabbard, but Elinor shattered every shadow of subtlety, storming from stall to stall with the ruthless joy only a child could wield.
She wanted everything. And, of course, she would have it.
For her, he would always pay the price.
"Two more ribbons!" she chirped, holding up a fistful of satin like spoils of war.
Lucian fished out coins with a sigh, but his gaze had already shifted—past the merchant's grin, past the crowd, toward the woman whose presence could silence a street without a single word.
Lysette Veyra.
The Cold Rose of Veyra.
Her beauty was a blade sheathed in frost: perfect, untouchable, and cutting without drawing blood. Draped in emerald silk that caught the afternoon light, she stood beside a flower stall, white roses trembling in her gloved hands as though they too feared her chill.
And him? He smiled like a fool who had willingly walked into winter.
"Elinor," he murmured, slipping coins to the merchant without looking. "Time to greet someone very important."
His sister tilted her head, following his gaze. "Oh. Her."
The way she said it, sharp as citrus, made Lucian's smile twitch. "Play nice," he warned softly.
But even he could not play this game without frost burning his fingertips. For between silk and silence, between duty and desire, stood the one he was bound to marry…and the one who wished he would vanish like snow in spring.