The wind in Oakhaven did not merely blow; it bit. It carried the scent of wet slate and the iron-tang of the northern sea, a constant reminder of the harsh soil that had birthed the House of Valerius. Inside the Citadel of Grey-Reach, the air was thick with the smell of tallow candles and the damp wool of mourning cloaks. Though the Great War had officially ceased three summers ago, the palace remained a tomb of silent grudges.
Princess Elara stood before the floor-to-ceiling mirror in her private chambers, her reflection a pale ghost against the dark oak paneling. Her ladies-in-waiting moved around her like silent moths, pinning the heavy, midnight-blue velvet of her traveling gown. The bodice was boned with whalebone so stiff it forced her shoulders back into a posture of defiance, even as her lungs struggled for a full breath. Every gemstone sewn into the hem was a drop of frozen blood, a piece of the kingdom's dwindling treasury sacrificed to make her look like a sovereign rather than a beggar.
"The Sun-Throne's envoy has crossed the Lowbridge, Your Highness," whispered Mina, the youngest maid, her hands trembling as she adjusted Elara's silver signet ring.
Elara did not look at the girl. She looked at the ring—the crest of the Twin Wolves. One wolf was dead, representing her father; the other was starving, representing the people she was sworn to protect. Today, she was to be the collateral. The "Peace of Thorns," as the poets called it, demanded a royal hostage to ensure Oakhaven's compliance with the new trade borders. She was to be a "guest" in the court of her most hated enemy, King Valerius of the South.
"Let them come," Elara said, her voice a low, resonant cello string. "I would rather face a den of vipers than another morning of this stifling silence."
She walked to the window, the heavy velvet of her skirts hissing against the stone floor like a warning. Below, in the courtyard, the Oakhaven guards stood in rigid formation, their armor scarred and dull. Beyond the gates, the charred remains of the Outer Ward still stood—blackened skeletons of homes that King Valerius's cannons had leveled during the Siege of the Six Moons.
The feud was not a story in a book; it was the grit in her teeth. It was the way her mother cried in the middle of the night, and the way her younger sisters, Lyra and Serafina, looked at her with wide, terrified eyes whenever the Southern envoys were mentioned. She was the eldest. She was the shield.
A sudden blast of trumpets—brass and arrogant—cut through the mist. The Southern delegation was at the gates. They didn't play the somber notes of the North; their music was bright, gold, and predatory.
Elara felt a sudden, sharp prick in her finger. She looked down to see a bead of crimson blooming on her skin where a loose pin had caught her. She didn't flinch. She watched the blood grow, a small, vibrant rebellion against the cold blue of her dress.
"Your Highness, your gloves," Mina urged, holding out the white silk.
"No," Elara said, her eyes fixed on the approaching golden banners in the distance. "Let the King see the blood of the North. Let him see that we still bleed, even if he thinks he has drained us dry."
She turned away from the window, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against the cage of her ribs. She was stepping into the mouth of the wolf, and she intended to make sure it choked on her.