Twelve soldiers circled him. Their armour gleamed beneath the high sun, blades drawn, breaths laboured. The scent of sweat, steel, and fear thickened the air.
Felix smiled.
He moved like smoke—fluid, untouchable. His bare chest shimmered with sweat, muscles tightening and releasing with each precise motion. His sword was an extension of himself—fast, sharp, and unforgiving. One soldier lunged. Felix ducked low, twisted, and slammed the hilt into the man's gut. Another came from the left; he spun, deflected, then brought his blade up just close enough to graze the man's neck.
"Tiring already?" he asked, smirking as two more backed away, panting.
On the edges of the court, maids and noblewomen stood in clusters, eyes wide. They whispered behind delicate fans, admiring the golden-haired prince as if he were a painting brought to life. His blonde hair was tied into a messy bun, strands falling over the sharp angles of his cheekbones. The scar above his collarbone—earned in the Siege of Belros—shone like a badge of honour.
Among the admirers was Tamara, the one he had shared his bed with the night before. She wore the same gold ribbon he'd pulled from her hair, still flushed with the memory of him. He caught her gaze and winked. She looked away, pretending to blush, pretending not to care.
"Your Highness!" A guard approached, out of breath. "The King commands your presence in the solar."
Felix sighed, not bothering to sheath his sword. "Of course he does."
He didn't change. Let the king see him exactly as he was—shirtless, sweat-slicked, and unbothered. Let him stew in his expectations.
As Felix walked the marbled corridors of Eldrath's fortress-palace, heads turned. The palace itself was a monument to strength—obsidian columns, gold-veined floors, ceilings high enough to house dragons. It was said the kingdom never bent the knee. And neither did its heir.
He entered the solar without knocking.
His father stood by the tall window, robed in crimson velvet and trimmed with lion-fur. King Thorne Vaelorian was every inch a monarch—broad, stern, carved of stone and steel. He turned slowly.
"You are to be wed," the king said, without preamble.
Felix blinked, then let out a short laugh. "No."
"This is not a request."
"Then consider my answer a declaration," he said, stepping forward. "I am not some mare to be bred for alliance."
"You will marry Princess Lucia of Hamilton. The contract is sealed."
Felix's expression darkened. "Hamilton. The smallest, softest of the four kingdoms? You'd have me tethered to roses and poetry?"
"You will bind this house to theirs. Eldrath leads the four provinces. But even kings must know when to tie their sword to silk."
"I've led your armies," Felix growled. "I've conquered the North, crushed rebellions, slit throats in the name of your banner. And now you reward me with chains wrapped in lace?"
"You are heir to a legacy far greater than your ego."
"And yet somehow, never greater than yours."
The king's eyes narrowed. "This match was your mother's wish."
Felix froze.
The air shifted.
"Do not speak of her."
"She wanted this," the king pressed. "She begged for it. You think this is only my doing?"
"You let her die," Felix hissed, voice cracking under his fury. "While you polished your damned throne and played politics, she died. Alone."
Thorne's jaw tightened. "Mind your tongue."
"You were never there. Not for her. Not for me. You killed her just as surely as time did."
The king's hand moved to the sword at his hip in a blur. Steel flashed.
Felix flinched, too slow.
The blade nicked his cheek—clean, precise.
Blood trickled down, warm against his skin.
He stood still, breathing shallow, shoulders tense.
For a brief second, the fire in his eyes faltered—replaced by something deeper, quieter. The kind of silence that comes with memory: a cold bed, a mother's hand going limp, the helplessness of boyhood swallowed by war.
The guards stepped back, unsure.
King Thorne didn't lower his blade. "Rid yourself of your whores. You will leave for Hamilton in a fortnight. There will be a betrothal feast. You will attend."
Felix touched the blood at his cheek, then looked his father squarely in the eye. "You may command the provinces. But you'll never own me."
"Then act like a prince for once," the king spat.
Felix turned and walked out, slow and deliberate. His heart thundered. Behind his silence, rage coiled tight like a snake preparing to strike.
He didn't know who Princess Lucia Hamilton was. He didn't care.
But he hoped she was ready.
Because Felix Vaelorian was coming.
And wherever he went, peace died first.