Yara's POV…
I stepped into the Citadel of Eirathen, shocked at how cold it was. Made from living ice, even the stories did not come close to a proper description. It was the land of the immortal. I was being given, albeit unwillingly, as a peace offering to him.
It was cold, both in temperature and feeling, and as I looked up into his icy, cold blue eyes, I shook internally. He was him…, Vaelor.
I didn't know how long I stood frozen in place until Mara, my handmaid, nudged her on.
"Go on, miss."
I squeezed Mara's hand for strength, then summoned courage and looked up. I am Yara. Though mortal, I knew who I was, and no one, immortal or not, Vaelor Draven or not, could make me back down.
**A little backstory**
For a while, there had been mounting tension between our realms, the mortal and the immortal realm, and to prevent war, the stupid Immortal Council demanded a mortal bride. Not just any bride, he wanted me, Princess Yara. And it wasn't just because I was a princess, it was because at first glance, I seemed flexible, malleable, and easy to control.
Or maybe, easy to kill. There would be so many ways for me to die here, and my parents made sure to warn me of them and plead with me to be careful and humble.
If I were rude, death.
If I fall in love here, death.
If someone falls in love with me, death.
Seren Dathen, my new groom's cousin, could also find me suspicious and see their bond, death.
Or maybe I'd commit a crime, and the Immortal Enforcer would request my death.
Maybe it would be by the councilor, Vaelor's most trusted advisor, death.
*Back to the present*
Immortals line both sides of the hallway, looking elegant, their expressions perfectly neutral. Their eyes follow me with various emotions: curiosity, disdain, judgment, pity.
I walk forward alone, leaving Mira and Rynor, my envoy sent to protect and watch me.
At the far end of the hall, upon a podium of ice stands Vaelor Draven.
I recognize him instantly, mostly because I have seen his numerous portraits. The weight and coldness of his presence, though, is more than I was ready for. I pull my coat closer to myself as if to shield myself from his presence. He is taller than I imagined, probably 6'2, maybe more. His shoulders are broad, and he is still as a statue. His skin looks pale and unreal. Long silver-white hair falls straight down his back, catching the glow of the runes carved in the ice.
He looks up, and his eyes meet mine, and suddenly, I feel the temperature drop. His gaze is a piercing, icy blue, luminous and ancient, and it pins me in place.
This is the immortal they fear, both mortals and immortals.
This is the man I am to marry, or maybe he is the man whose hand shall kill me.
Cruel. Emotionless. Still.
His face is as plain as a blank page. No surprise, no disdain, no interest. He is a being who has mastered himself and his emotions so completely.
Everyone has lowered their gaze, including Mira and Rynor. I should lower my eyes, especially since he is looking directly at me.
I don't.
Our eyes lock, and something strange is in the air between us. A subtle vibration in the air, like the start of an earthquake. His eyes show something, but just barely, as if reacting to something he did not expect. What was that? Anger? No. Joy? I think it was a shock.
An immortal herald steps forward, voice echoing across the hall as he announces my name, my lineage, my purpose.
"Yara Altharion, Mortal Princess, daughter of Altharion, Bride for Vaelor Draven."
Each word strips me further, reducing my life to a sacrificial offering. I listened to it all, but I did not react. My hands folded, my brain willing my pulse to steady, and my heart to stop racing. But I did not stop looking at Vaelor, I stared at him as if I was boring a hole into his soul.
I am not malleable.
I am not an object to be used as an offering, and I will prove it while I'm here.
When the herald finishes, silence descends once more. Vaelor does not move, nor does he speak. His stare at me feels deliberate, as though he expects me to falter beneath it. As though we compete to see who will back down first.
I take another step forward.
The ice hums softly beneath my feet as I take each step. Everyone stares at my feet as I walk, and I realise why. There is a warmth spreading outward from me, not heat exactly, but life. Life.
Vaelor's eyes narrow interestingly.
"Yara Altharion," he says at last.
His voice is low, resonant, carrying power layered with control. It brushes against my skin, sending a shiver down my spine that is not just fear; it is something else, and it scares me more than fear.
"You have entered Eirathen."
"I'm aware," I reply.
There are slight murmurs through the hall, but they are quickly suppressed, and I catch the flicker of surprise in a few immortal faces.
Mortals are expected to tremble. Mortals are to soften their voices and disappear politely, not make any noise, and be invisible.
Vaelor studies me more closely now. Not as an object, but as a variable. Better.
"You were chosen," he says, not unkindly, but without warmth, coldly. "By decree. By necessity."
"Yes," I answer. "Not by consent, unwillingly."
The air tightens, and it is as if time has slowed down. Maybe it will die earlier than expected.
For a split second, the runes along the columns flare brighter. Is he connected to the Citadel? Does Eirathen follow the master's heart?
I feel a pressure against my chest, a warning from the realm itself. There is quiet.
Vaelor lifts a hand as if to calm the citadel, or maybe himself.
Everything stills.