Amarielle stood upon her balcony, the sea wind tangling through her dark hair as she watched the waves crash aggressively against the cliffs below. Some of them looked as if they had every intent of breaking the very cliffs the castle was built upon. The scent of salt and rain filled the air, a storm was coming. Summer had brought not only warmth but unease as well. The tides rose higher with each passing day, the snow had melted from the mountains, and the rivers spilled into the sea, mingling fresh water with brine and causing the sea levels to rise even higher. The world was changing, as were her fortunes.
Tomorrow, she would be wed.
Her fingers tightened around the cold stone of the balcony. The thought of Prince Raylan prowling through her halls made her stomach twist. He walked these corridors as if they were already his, his pale eyes ever assessing. Gods, he wasn't even old, and yet the thinning hair atop his head betrayed the truth, time was not on his side. If his father hadn't threatened war, if he hadn't dangled her sister's life like bait on a hook, Amarielle would have refused him without hesitation.
Carissa, bright, beautiful, young Carissa, how had she fallen into their grasp? One evening they had spent reading old tales and the next morning she had vanished. The question gnawed at Amarielle like hunger, unanswered and unbearable. But if this marriage could save her sister, her realm, her people… she would comply. She would marry that boar if she must.
A sharp knock at her chamber door tore her from her thoughts.
"Enter," she called, her voice sounded steadier than she felt.
The door creaked open and Celyse entered, her handmaiden and friend. Her red curls had frizzed wildly from the damp air, worry gleamed in her wide hazel eyes. Her freckled round cheeks were flushed from haste, or worry perhaps.
"Princess," Celyse said, curtseying quickly. "Dinner is served. Your mother made certain to remind me this evening is not optional."
Amarielle exhaled through her nose and smoothed the folds of her gown. "Very well," she gathered her composure like a cloak before she walked towards the door.
Celyse stepped aside to allow her to pass, but the unease on her face didn't fade. Even other servants carried grief in their eyes these days. The castle felt like a tomb preparing for a funeral, not a wedding.
"Come," Amarielle murmured as she stepped toward the door, forcing a smile though it didn't reach her eyes. "We mustn't keep the Queen waiting."
Celyse followed silently, her slippers whispering against the flagstones. The corridor stretched before them like the walk towards an execution. Torches flickered along the ancient walls, but even the flames seemed grim today. The once bright tapestries of House Thalor hung heavy with dust, the blue roses dulled by shadows.
Amarielle's gown, deep blue like the sea and trimmed in silver, whispered against the floor as she walked. She remembered running barefoot through these same halls with Carissa, their laughter ringing off the stones, sunlight streaming through every window. How strange, she thought, that tomorrow all this would belong to someone else, even if only in name.
At the great hall, the guards, dressed in their silver gleaming armor, bowed before they heaved open the oaken doors.
"Princess Amarielle of House Thalor," the herald's voice rang out, echoing beneath the vaulted ceiling.
A few servants eyes and her parents turned toward her as she crossed the long hall toward the dais where her parents were already seated. The banners of her house, the blue rose entwined around a golden sword, still adorned the walls, defiant in their beauty yet covered in dust like the ones in the corridor.
"Mother. Father." Amarielle curtsied and took her seat beside them.
Her mother was radiant as ever, though her gown told a story of its own. Emerald green with crimson thread, the colors of her maiden house. A deliberate choice. They must have argued, she only wore green when she wished to urke her father. Her hazelnut hair fell in perfect curls over her shoulders, crowned by a delicate golden tiara.
"Amarielle, darling," her mother began, her voice honeyed but sharp around the edges. "Your handmaiden was caught in the library again this afternoon. With books from the forbidden section." Her blue eyes fixed on her daughter, cool and assessing, though rimmed in red, betraying the recent tears she tried to hide. "Would you care to explain?"
Amarielle felt the weight of her gaze upon her, like ice underneath her skin. The long table gleamed with polished silver and flickering candlelight, yet the warmth did nothing to ease the chill.
"I see," she said slowly, lifting her goblet of wine, but not yet drinking it. "Celyse meant no harm, Mother. She's been with me since I was a child, surely you remember her name."
Her mother's rose painted lips twitched, not quite a smile, not quite restraint, disdain.
"Of course." she replied after a beat too long, her tone as smooth as glass.
Amarielle set down her cup and met her mother's gaze evenly. " Perhaps this is not the time to scold her or me for the reading of old tales."
Her father's knife scraped against the plate, a sound sharp enough to slice the air between them. "Enough," he didn't even lift his eyes up from his meal. His voice was deep, rough and aged, but it carried the weight of command that had ruled their house for decades now. "We will not darken this evening with talk of handmaidens and libraries. Tomorrow, our daughter weds a prince. Let us not forget the honor that brings our house."
Katlyn's eyes flicked toward her husband, cold and unyielding. "Honor, yes," she said, the word dripping with venom. "Is that what we call it now?"
That's when Elion looked up, the silence that followed was suffocating. Even the servants froze for a breath.
Amarielle glanced between them, her chest tightening with the tension. It wasn't new, the silent war between her parents had raged for years, but it had grown sharper since the betrothal. Her mother had always been proud, too proud perhaps, to watch her daughters be bartered like coin and trinkets. It had been since Amarielle's agreement to the wedding, that her mother had treated her with nothing but ice. Once, long ago, Katlyn had been the one to create warmth in this castle. She seemed to forget that it was for Carissa, otherwise Amarielle would have never agreed either.
She forced a soft smile upon her lips. "Please," she said quietly, "let us not argue. Not tonight."
Her father's expression softened, briefly and barely noticeable behind all the reddish brown facial hair. "Your mother forgets herself. Everything will be well. Once the alliance is sealed, there will be peace again and Carissa will return safely."
Peace. The word was a bitter joke. Amarielle could still see the shadow of smoke on the horizon, villages had been burned by the same men she was expected to call family after tomorrow. "I'm sure," she murmured.
Her mother reached for her wine once more, her jeweled fingers trembling just enough for a trained eye to notice. "Tell me, Amarielle, " she said, shifting her tone so suddenly it was almost rude, almost dismissive of Elion," have you met your betrothed since his arrival? I hear Prince Raylan is most eager."
Eager. Another word for greedy. Amarielle forced her shoulders to remain straight, her face serene. "We spoke, yes" she said evenly, biting the inside of her cheek. She'd rather erase every memory of him, his voice was sharp like her father's place against the porcelain plate.
"What did you think of him?"
She met her mother's eyes again, the question was a knife cloaked in silk.
"I think," Amarielle paused, trying to find fitting words to describe her thoughts without sounding harsh,"he is a man who knows what he wants."
Her father scoffed under his breath. "That's why his father wants him to seat the throne."
Amarielle didn't answer, she didn't have to. It was laughable. A cruel jest to see her families house torn to shreds beneath the boars. She turned her gaze toward the window, the storm clouds gathered beyond the glass. Lightning forked across the sea, white against the black horizon and Thunder was quick to follow. Shaking the stained glass that kept the storm out.
Katlyn followed her eldest daughters gaze. "A storm," she murmured. " It seems the gods are sending an ill omen, the night before our daughters wedding."
"Or a sign of change," Amarielle added quickly, to avoid yet another wave of tension between her parents.
For a long while, no one spoke. The thunder rolled outside, like a dragons roar, steady as the beating of a heart.
When at last the meal ended, Amarielle rose and bowed her head. "If you'll excuse me," she said, her tone carefully measured, "I must rest. Tomorrow will be a long day."
Elion inclined his head in dismissal, turning to speak with his cup bearer for yet another goblet of wine, as if he hadn't had enough. Her mother said nothing. She simply watched as Amarielle walked away, eyes glistening, as if she knew the girl who left that hall would never truly return.
The hallways were quiet aside from servants hushes when Amarielle returned to her chambers, the soft echo of her slippers followed her like ghosts of the past. She hardly noticed the guards stationed by the door, seated for their nightshift, or the flicker of the torches that lined the walls. Her mind was a storm of its own. Memories of her sister, anger about her upcoming wedding and fear most of all, crashing together with no rhythm but the storms.
The heavy door shut behind her with a dull thud, and silence pressed in like a saving grace. She didn't bother lighting candles. The storm outside threw flashes of light across the room, brief, silvery glimpses of her familiar surroundings. That ought to be enough to find her bed. The wind would blow out the candles regardless. Her velvet curtains followed the howl of the wind, and the half open balcony door swayed in rhythm, like a dance to a melody only they could hear.
Amarielle crossed the room without thinking. The weight of her gown pulled at her shoulders, worse than the thoughts that tore at her heart about the upcoming day. She sank onto the bed and let herself fall back with an exhausted sigh, closing her eyes and welcoming the darkness. The scent of rain drifted through the window, cool, clean and alive. For the first time all day, she allowed herself to breathe. Truly breathe.
But the peace was short lived.
"I must say," a male voice drawled from the shadows, amused and uninvited, "for a future queen, you seem rather calm in a room so easily broken into."
Amarielle shot upright. Her heart lurched into her throat, and goosebumps crawled up her spine. Her hands grasped the sheets as though they could steady her. She couldn't have fallen asleep that quickly.
"Who's there?"
"Relax, Amara," the voice teased. "If I wanted you dead or harmed, you'd have never heard me."
The curtains stirred, and from their folds stepped a man. Tall, and broad shouldered. He moved with the silent grace of someone accustomed to shadows. His hair was as dark as the night itself, falling in unruly curls to his shoulders. A shadow of stubble traced his jaw, and his eyes, dark as oak bark in deep shade, caught the lightning that split the room.
He lingered a few steps away, like a predator watching his next meal. His smirk hinted at the teeth behind it. He wore dark leathers, worn but kept,the kind favored by soldiers, though he did not seem like a soldier at all. Not of the kind she knew. A sword hung at his belt, a dagger glinted in his hand.
Amarielle's pulse thundered in her ears, but her voice held steady. "You dare speak to me as if we're acquainted? I am Princess Amarielle and you have no,—"
"Ah, but Amara suits you better," he interrupted with a lopsided grin, stepping closer. "It's shorter. Feistier. Easier to shout when I'm dragging you out of here."
Her hand slipped beneath the pillow, fingers brushing the dagger hidden there. A small comfort she had received after the disappearing of her sister. But when she looked up again, his grin told her he already knew and he was daring her to act.
"Go ahead," he said, tilting his head. "Let's see how far you get."
"Who are you?" she demanded. Her voice trembled, but perhaps he'd mistake it for anger.
He spread his arms in mock courtesy. "Kaelen. At your service, or your ruin, depending on how this night goes."
"Guards!" she shouted, but the word was swallowed by thunder.
Kaelen's smirk deepened. "Too late to stop what's already begun, hmm? You didn't notice them sleeping when you came back?"
Her stomach turned cold.
"What do you want?" she spat, fingers tightening around the dagger's hilt.
"That," he said, voice low and smooth as steel, "is the better question."
Lightning flared again, painting his face in white and shadow. His eyes held something unreadable, interest, not quite hunger, but sharper than both. Something dangerous.
He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell rain, salt and leather on him. "I want what the realm wants."
Amarielle met his gaze the best she could and tried to keep her breath shallow. "And that is?"
"Freedom," he said simply. "To live not under tyranny."
The wind howled through the open balcony, tossing the curtains around them like a living thing.
"That doesn't explain why you're here," her voice was laced with tremors of unease, as much as defiance.
"Oh, but it does." His tone was almost lazy as he leaned against one of the carved wooden bedposts, his dagger twirling idly in his fingers. "You're to marry Prince Raylan of Bane tomorrow. A fine match to seal a false peace." He tilted his head. "A lovely cage, dressed up in silk. A beautiful cover for the ruin of the realm."
Her glare sharpened. Whoever he was, he had no clue what he was talking about, nor the price she was paying. He spoke to her as if she didn't care, as if she hadn't weighed other options. "You're too late to protest, stranger. You had your chance, like everyone, to speak to the king."
Kaelen's smile vanished in an instant, replaced by something colder. "Your beloved King Elion doesn't listen to men like me. He listens to gold. To fear. To power. Not truth."
He pushed off the bedpost and crossed the remaining space between them in two slow, deliberate steps.
"I will not let that wedding happen." His voice was low, dangerous. "Because you're coming with me."
Her breath caught. "I would never -"
"That's not a question, Princess." He reached into his cloak and tossed a small insignia onto her bed, a silver medallion engraved with a Kraken. The mark of the Seadrake. Amarielle's heart caught, as if he'd poured ice over her head.
"I have a plan," he continued. "But for it to work, you can't marry Raylan. You can't even be here by dawn."
"You're mad," she whispered. "You break into my chambers, threaten me, wave your pirate sigil around as if it carried any weight here, and call it a plan?"
"I call it survival for my people," he said, voice hardening. "For every soul beyond these gilded walls. Raylan's wedding would sign the realm's death warrant. And whether you like it or not, Amara…" He leaned closer until she could feel his breath ghosting against her ear. "…you are the key to stopping it."
Lightning cracked again, the sound of thunder echoed in her chest. When she found her voice again, it came out half a whisper. "And if I refuse?"
Kaelen's smirk returned, sharp as the blade in his hand. "Then I will carry you out. Either way, Amara… you're not marrying anyone tomorrow."
He was so close she could feel the warmth of him even through the damp air. This was the moment, the moment courage and desperation had sharpened into something dangerous. Her chance. She clutched the dagger with trembling hands, but she did not falter.
She rose and silver blade came up in a single, fluid motion. For a heartbeat he looked surprised, though not afraid. No, more enticed. He moved slower than she expected, but faster and stronger than she had dared to hope. Kaelen's hand closed over her wrist, like steel, the blade nicked the soft inside of his forearm. A thin bead of blood welled, bright against his skin even in the dark.
A small sound escaped his lips, amused and almost affectionate. "Oh love," he said, laughing low and easy as thunder. "Are you flirting with me?" His low laugh ate the words before thunder sounded again, louder and closer than it had before.
He did not recoil. He did not curse. Instead he tightened his grip, twisting until the dagger slipped from her fingers with a clink against the flagstone. Panic began to flush her veins and as much as every instinct told her to scream, she couldn't. Before she could wrench free, his other hand came up with practiced ease, pressing his palm to her temple. "Sweet dreams.", he drawled low, she could have sworn she saw him grin again, before her head hit the wall, or her bed, she wasn't entirely sure. Pain exploded behind her eyes, the room spun, lightning and thunder frayed into static.
Warmth flooded the corner of her vision, and then black velvet rolled over everything. She tried to call out, to fight, to fix whatever truth had driven him here into that smug expression, but her breath came too shallow once, twice, and then was gone. She felt him bend and gather her limp form against his shoulder, the cut on his arm nothing more than an inconvenient souvenir.
The world quieted around her, thunder fading, rain retreating, the scent of salt and leather dissolving into nothing. Absurdly, the last thing that crossed her mind before darkness claimed her was Carissa's laughter, the night before she'd vanished.