The throne room erupted.
"You would marry the enemy?" Carrie shouted. "After what they did to Fiora?"
"I would infiltrate them," Lydia replied. "I would dismantle them from within."
She laid out her plan: the king would feign surrender, offer fertile land and resources, and apologize for the war. Grandthrest would believe Alpheria was broken. They would accept Lydia's hand in marriage.
"They will think we are weak," Lydia said. "They will let their guard down. And I will rise."
The king resisted. Carrie pleaded. But Lydia's reputation was undeniable. She had navigated Alpheria's politics for years. She had charmed nobles, outwitted diplomats, and predicted alliances before they formed.
She was ready.
The king agreed, reluctantly. A message was sent to Grandthrest. Peace was offered. A marriage was proposed.
Lydia prepared for her journey. Her veil now symbolized more than secrecy—it was the mask of vengeance.
As she stood at the palace gates, ready to leave, Carrie hugged her tightly.
"Promise me you'll come back."
Lydia whispered, "I won't come back the same. I'll come back victorious."
After a few days they arrived in Grandthrest.
The hall of Grandthrest was carved from obsidian and arrogance. Its king sat on a throne of polished bone, flanked by advisors dressed in silks and smugness. Across from him, King Aldren of Alpheria sat stiffly, his jaw clenched, his eyes burning with restrained fury.
Lydia stood behind her father, veiled as always, her presence quiet but commanding.
The Grandthrest king leaned forward, his voice smooth and venomous. "We accept your apology, King Aldren. It takes humility to admit defeat."
Aldren's fingers curled into fists.
"And as a gesture of peace," the Grandthrest king continued, "we are willing to accept your daughter's hand in marriage."
Aldren's breath caught. He glanced at Lydia, then back at the king. "To which prince?"
The room fell silent.
The Grandthrest king smiled. "To Prince Dorian. Our seventh son."
A murmur rippled through the court.
Dorian. The drunk. The fool. The man who had once tried to ride a warhorse into a fountain and declared it a naval victory. He was known for his temper, his incompetence, and his complete lack of political influence. And worse—he already had a wife.
Aldren rose from his seat, rage boiling in his chest. "You insult my daughter. You insult my kingdom."
But before he could speak further, a soft hand touched his arm.
Lydia.
She stepped forward, her voice calm and clear. "Accept it."
Aldren turned to her, stunned. "Lydia—"
She met his eyes through the veil. "This is exactly what we need."
The Grandthrest king chuckled. "You see? She understands her place."
Lydia bowed her head slightly. "I understand far more than you think."
Aldren looked at her for a long moment. Then he nodded, slowly. "Very well. The marriage will be held in one month."
The Grandthrest king smiled, satisfied. "Prepare your daughter. She will be a fine second wife."
Lydia said nothing.
But as she turned to leave, her eyes met those of the Grandthrest advisors. She saw their smirks, their condescension, their certainty that Alpheria had been broken.
She smiled beneath her veil.
Let them think she was beneath them.
Let them think she was powerless.