The war between Zadon and Arithia had begun centuries earlier, long before memory learned to keep score. Arithia, a kingdom famed for its warriors and unyielding pride, had fought on without pause, even when the odds were cruelly uneven. Zadon's armies were vast, ten times the strength of Ashton's and greater still than Arithia's, but Arithia refused to bend.
Years of blood and broken treaties followed. Cities burned, crowns fell, and one by one the seven kingdoms were pulled beneath Zadon's banner. When the last drums of battle finally fell silent, Zadon stood supreme, its rule stretching across all seven realms, Arithia among them.
Peace came, but it was not gentle. It arrived heavy with conditions, sealed not by mercy but by control. And so, on the morning the bells rang, clear, bright, and impossible to ignore, the kingdoms understood the truth: this wedding was not a celebration.
It was the final price of the war.
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King Grant sat alone in the throne room, the weight of the crown pressing heavier than iron. The echoes of war still lingered in the stone walls, and though the battles had ended, peace refused to settle in his heart. He was gathering his thoughts when a palace guard hurried in, bowing low.
"Your Majesty," the guard said, breathless. "Messengers from Zadon have arrived."
A murmur rippled through the chamber. Courtiers exchanged uneasy glances, their worry unspoken but shared. No one ever welcomed visitors from Zadon.
Before the king could respond, the great doors flew open. Three figures strode into the throne room, their armor dark and unfamiliar, marked with Zadon's insignia. From a single glance, King Grant knew exactly who they were.
"Greetings, Your Highness," said the one who stepped forward, his voice sharp and practiced.
King Grant already knew the purpose of their visit, yet custom demanded courtesy. "Greetings, warriors of Zadon," he replied steadily. "What do I owe this visit?"
"We are here once more to collect the tribute," the soldier said coldly. "A payment you know has been overdue for months."
The king's hands tightened against the arm of the throne. "The tribute is… heavy," he said carefully. "Our people are already burdened. We are charged greatly merely to trade and gain access to the routes. We cannot afford such a demand."
Silence fell.
For a king to beg was taboo, unthinkable, especially before foreign soldiers, but desperation outweighed pride. "Please," King Grant added quietly. "Grant us more time."
The soldiers exchanged glances, almost amused. "Are you aware," one asked, "that this kingdom owes tribute for more than three moons?"
"Yes," the king answered. "I am. But still, I ask for patience."
"That," the warrior said, stepping closer, "is precisely why we are here."
The room seemed to darken as he continued. "By decree of our King, your debt shall be repaid not in gold; but in bloodline. Your daughter, Princess Artemis, is demanded as payment. She is to be wed to our young master."
The words struck like a blade.
"Please," King Grant whispered, his composure finally breaking. "Anything else."
The warrior's expression hardened. "Do you dare question the will of the King of Zadon?" he barked.
"No—no, of course not," King Grant replied, panic rising in his voice.
"By the next moon," the soldier said, already turning away, "there shall be a wedding between Princess Artemis and our young master."
Before the king could speak again, the three warriors were gone, their footsteps echoing like a sentence passed.
King Grant remained frozen on his throne, the bells of a future wedding already ringing in his ears.