Roleplay Between Megan and Edling :3

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The Kingdom of Velenthia is rebuilding after a brutal war with the mountainous realm of Tharros. To seal a fragile alliance, Princess Elyra is betrothed to Prince (YC), a brilliant strategist known for his icy demeanor and ruthless loyalty to his people. The marriage is political. The affection, if any, must be earned.

As Elyra is sent to live in the Tharrosi court for the Season of Unity before the wedding, she finds herself intrigued by YC's contradictions—he’s colder than winter yet burns with hidden fire. Their relationship is slow, complicated by pride, differences, and the ghosts of war.

(May add love triangle eventually:3)

Age: 21

Title/Role:

Future Princess of Tharros (by bethrothal)

Velenthia's Last Dove a name given to her by the Poets during wa time when she was seen as a symbol of Hope.

Physical Description:

Height: 5’9” (175 cm)

Build: Slender and willowy, yet toned from years of riding and archery; she moves with a natural grace that betrays her noble upbringing but carries the quiet strength of a woman who has endured much. Her waist is narrow, her shoulders elegant, and her limbs long and fluid, shaped more by activity than vanity.

Skin Tone: Pale ivory with a faint golden warmth, like sun on winter snow. Her skin bruises easily, a curse of her bloodline, often leaving shadows on her arms and legs where she trains or rides too hard. A faint line of freckles dusts her nose and collarbones—barely visible, but proof she’s not made of porcelain.

Face: Oval-shaped with high, sharp cheekbones that lend her a regal air. Her jawline is subtly defined, and her chin has a slight cleft—barely noticeable unless one is close. Her lips are full, naturally downturned at rest, giving her an unreadable, thoughtful expression.

Eyes: Large and almond-shaped, the color of moonlight on steel—silvery-gray with flecks of ice blue. Her gaze is piercing, unnervingly observant, and rarely betrays emotion unless she chooses to let it. Her thick lashes are dark, framing her eyes with a sharp contrast to her light hair.

Hair: Waist-length and silken, a rare silver-gold hue known only to the royal line. In sunlight, it gleams like starlight caught in spun thread. She wears it loosely braided during travel, but at court, it’s often twisted into elaborate updos adorned with pearl pins or velvet ribbons. A single lock always seems to escape—rebellious, like her.

Voice: Soft-spoken, but firm. She rarely raises it, and yet, when she speaks, people listen. There’s an almost melodic lilt to her voice, tinged with the accent of Velenthia’s southern coast—polished but not pretentious.

Scars/Markings: A faint scar runs along her right hip, hidden beneath silks, from a childhood fall off a horse. Another smaller one traces the inside of her left wrist—a reminder of a knife she once clutched too tightly in a moment of fear.

Clothing Style: Elyra’s court attire blends elegance with mobility. She favors flowing gowns in cool jewel tones—deep sapphire, stormy gray, muted violet—often embroidered with symbolic motifs of stars, wings, or waves. Her bodices are fitted, sleeves long and sweeping. She avoids excessive jewelry but always wears her mother’s silver pendant, a stylized falcon with emerald eyes.

Presence: Though not physically imposing, Elyra’s presence commands attention. There’s a restrained intensity in how she holds herself—shoulders back, chin high, as if always bracing for war or judgment. She is a quiet storm: noble, composed, but capable of fierce defiance when provoked.

Character Traits

Diplomatic: Elyra has a silver tongue when needed, trained to defuse tensions with grace. She listens more than she speaks, but always knows how to speak

Empathetic: She feels everything deeply, though she rarely shows it. Her compassion is her greatest gift—and greatest liability.

Intelligent: Far more perceptive than people assume. She notices the pauses between words, the way people shift when they lie.

Resilient: She has endured unbearable lose with dignity. What breaks others, She endures in silence -until it erupts.

Romantic (in secret): Though the court sees her as pragmatic, she dreams of a love that is chosen, not arranged. And she resents that her heart is not hers to give.

Repressed Anger: Deep within her is a storm she’s never let loose. She can be ruthless when pushed, but it scares even her.

Curious: Fascinated by the Enemy Court; though she would never tell. She loves to learn about different customs, but also she understands to learn her enemies.

"Tell me father, which should i ask for- forgiveness for what I am not or What I am? And Mother, Tell me..Which should I regret more What I became or what I didn't?"

Velenthia is a temperate kingdom of gentle river valleys, fertile lowlands, and densely forested hills.

Capital City: Vireden – Built upon the River Lys, known for its cascading bridges, white stone towers, and terraced gardens.

Landscape Features:

• The Aelwyn Forest: Ancient, almost sentient woods believed to be protected by old spirits.

• The Silver Pass: A treacherous route through the mountains, now the diplomatic artery between Velenthia and the Enemy Kingdom.

The Emberfields: Once burned in war, now regrowing—where fields of blood-poppies bloom every spring.

• Highvale: The Meridiath ancestral estate—elegant, isolated, and surrounded by lavender fields. (Elyra's home)

• Climate: Warm springs, golden summers, rainy autumns, and mild winters.

Noble Houses:

• House Thalren: Naval power, loyal to Elyra, controls the eastern ports.

• House Dorneval: Wealthy, ambitious, controls grain trade; known to have secret ties to (YC Kingdom)

• House Caerwyn: Keepers of the western border, fiercely traditional and honorable.

Velenthians revere a pantheon of elemental deities, each tied to aspects of life and land. Temples are serene, fragrant places filled with windchimes and open gardens.

• Major Deities:

• Aelira, Lady of Wind and Wisdom – Patroness of queens and poets.

• (YC Kingdom), the Flameforger – Once a god of war, now shunned since the war with the kingdom sharing his name.

• Vareth, Keeper of Waters – Associated with healing, fertility, and rivers.

• The Veiled One – A forbidden feminine spirit believed to whisper prophecies in times of great change. The Silent Order of Vireth keeps sacred texts and prophecies. Their temples hold secrets, including the Bloodbinding Prophecy. Some believe they manipulate fate through hidden rites and dream-divining.

Highvale is nestled in the Velenthian heartlands, just south of the River Lys and a half-day’s ride from the capital, Vireden. Surrounded by sweeping lavender fields and gentle rolling hills, the estate appears more like a dream than a fortress—but its beauty hides a past of blood and rebellion.

Highvale is not just a home—it is the soul of House Meridiath. A place of quiet elegance, guarded by tradition, sacred rites, and secrets sealed in stone.

Highvale was built over three centuries ago by the first Queen Meridiath, who refused to live behind the city’s walls and sought instead to build a haven of beauty and peace.

• Main Residence: Constructed from pale limestone veined with silver, it glows gold at sunrise. The manor curves gracefully in a crescent shape around a central sunken garden, filled with roses, lilac trees, and rare white thistles that only bloom once a year.

• Windows: Tall arched windows let in natural light year-round. Colored glass mosaics of the Velenthian pantheon line the private chapel.

• Towers: Two slender towers rise from the east wing—one was once the library; the other, the Lady’s Tower, belonged to Elyra’s mother.

• The Moon Courtyard: A walled garden on the western side, overgrown with ivy, used for midnight gatherings and ancient Velenthian rites. Now largely forgotten… but Elyra remembers it well.

The Family Crypts: Hidden deep in a marble chapel grove behind the estate. Most avoid it, but Elyra visited often after her father’s death. Some say strange dreams come to those who linger too long in the crypt’s presence.

╔══➴¤➶═══ ∴ ⚜ ∴ ═══➴¤∗➶══╗

Lucian Beltharian-Valanté

╚══➴¤➶═══ ∴ ⚜ ∴ ═══➴¤➶══╝

Full Name:

Prince Lucian Raelor Beltharian-Valanté

Nickname(s):

The Red Prince (Earned in Combat)

Blade of Tharros (Earned in Combat)

Vessel of Voybis (Rumored to be both blessed and cherished by the Tharrosi deity of death, war, and justice; Voybis)

Luke (Among Close Friends and Relatives)

Title(s):

Crown Prince of Tharros (Current)

Heir to House Valanté (Former)

Sir Lucian (Former)

Knight of the Royal Tourney (Former)

Gender:

Male

Age:

25

Appearance:

Ruggedly handsome with an accenting facial structure of a heart, Lucian is a gentleman who embodies the balance of both humility and hubris with all but a mere glance at his appearance. Standing taller than most men at 6’3, what he lacks in a brutish bulking mass, Lucian makes up for in a lithe yet muscular triangular frame and overall mesomorphic build. As a man of a noticeable athletic physique, it’s difficult to say Lucian is a man who seems shy of being a complete lone powerhouse considering the present toning and muscle mass he possesses that make for a formidably agile man. Warmed with a golden olive for his skin color, the prince has more neutral undertones that temper his overall complexion into being that of a beautifully sun-kissed tan. Lucian is also not without various acute scarring along his arms, torso, back, and one particularly noticeable line of scarring drawn from the left side of his neck down to below the right side of his collarbone.

A rich shade of coal makes for the color of his hair, that of which is kept shorter in length but full in volume on any given day in favor of it being more low-maintenance and practical for helmets. While he tends to put in considerable effort to remain clean-shaven, he’s not without periods of embracing both light and more moderate stubble peppering his visage.

Lucian definitively possesses a set of higher reigning cheekbones prominent beneath sunken eyes flawed with the discoloration of ever-present exhaustion. In stark contrast, Lucian’s eyes are a lively spectacle made up of a striking emerald green pigment with hints of bronze peppered beside his pupil. With a semi-narrow, yet downturned shape, these eyes possess wispy onyx lashes that often spill over his sight. In terms of other facial features, the most unremarkable would be the man’s nose - both mediocre and unassuming to even a seasoned critic’s eye. However, if one had to describe it, it could be regarded as a bit pointy, paired with a straight bridge and narrow nostrils.

As for the Prince’s voice, the sound itself is of a lower pitch, though not heavy or gruff by any means. Perhaps a bit consistently huskier in comparison to other men, though not profoundly deep. It carries a ring of maturity that is far beyond his years and is generally delivered in a smooth and - dare be said - more soft-spoken manner, albeit with an undeniable undertone of sufficient self-confidence.

As far as most are concerned, Lucian and his royal armored uniform are one. Padded with a light tan aketon beneath, atop is full-plated, sleek red and silver-colored armor. Bearing the Beltharian family’s emblem engraved in golden accents on his breastplate, pauldrons, and attached white cloak, Lucian takes religious care of keeping his uniform set in near pristine condition for the sake of his representation of the family he belongs to. It also features an equally red collar embossed in thorned rose vine embroideries. Lucian’s custom-made armor set reflects the evidence of his tourney successes and other rigorous combat in battle. There are various forms of evidence in the form of scratches and parts of discoloration upon the armor itself that tells the tale of the conflicts he’s witnessed, but nothing that takes away from the opulent beauty of his cherished attire.

Armor aside, of course, Lucian is dressed both formally and elegantly for events and casualty alike day in and day out. Naturally, of course, the items that garb the crown prince are nothing short of the finest in material and fit. From outfits intended for social events to riding, there is never not a time where Lucian isn’t dressed his best.

Lucian also wears a ring on his right ring finger bearing his gemstone alignments: Diamond (Ambition), Ruby (War), Amber (Fury), Selenite (Death), and Garnet (Passion).

Personality:

Humble: In the manner in which Lucian consistently expresses himself outwardly, it is not unnoticed that he retains semblances of humility in his actions. He is an individual of quiet strength, a man who earns respect even within atmospheres where he is not seeking it. The Prince’s dedication to his service in full and his withdrawal from openly boasting about his capabilities and accomplishments make Lucian appear relatively modest.

Prideful: In contrast to his reflections of humility, there is a more subtle pride that still resonates around him. It teeters more in favor of tame confidence despite his reserved nature, albeit the Prince displays occasional expressions of arrogance when he feels challenged. In settings where Lucian is in a position to garner attention, his more hubris tendencies are generally showcased, making him a touch more dynamic than he may otherwise reflect or give the impression of.

Loyal: Lucian is an unyielding loyalist to all he dedicates and swears himself to. Above his own pursuits and needs, his loyalty knows few bounds. In this way, he is a protective creature, more considerate of the things and people he’s devoted to than anyone or anything else around them. He is readily able and willing to perform tasks both domestic and dangerous when need be for the sake of those he’s loyal to with little expression of hesitation, if any sense of that at all. The only things that could challenge Lucian’s devotion are betrayal and being regarded as a tool used for things that conflict with the more personal moral compass he holds.

Passionate: Since a young age, Lucian has lived with an untamed spirit, a tempered inferno he keeps close to his heart. It is easily one of his greatest driving forces in life, however, even though it is reeled in tight unless in moments of high stakes or emotional investment. More than an intense loyalist and dutifully driven man, Lucian is also passionate about self-growth and experience, prompting him to seek challenge often, or at the very least when appropriate.

Honest: Lucian treasures both honesty and integrity within himself and others. He prefers not to deceive or manipulate with direct lies unless dire but he does use his honesty strategically if it means disarming others and maneuvering through difficult situations without compromising his sense of uprightness. The Prince has a habit of being unwaveringly truthful though, whether or not such honesty is a bit inconvenient or harsh.

Quiet: Superficially, Lucian does not always come across as the most inviting considering the silence that generally parallels with his presence. Not that the Prince consistently has nothing to say, but rather is more thoughtful about the words he chooses to divulge. It’s also worth noting he possesses more of an affinity toward listening than speaking in most situations and can be rather dense to feeling tension in silences where he is otherwise comfortable.

Unconventional: Raised in an environment that catered to evolving past the molds of convention, Lucian adopted a unique sense of identity that has translated to both his guiding compass as well as his unique strengths. He is prone to thinking outside of the box first with little desire to work backward into simple and more predictable ideas and thought patterns.

Restless: There are little to no times Luke is satisfied with being idle by any definition. While his mouth may not do as much moving, the rest of him is certainly in some kind of consistent action. In this way, the Prince is not to exercise any strain of laziness nor is he a sedentary figure. This tends to taper down into his sleeping patterns, disallowing him to sleep for extended periods of time before he is up and craving productivity.

Self-Reliant: In his earlier years, Lucian’s acute lack of patience and unchecked temper spawned a boy who had the potential to achieve peak independence, just not the tools of self-control to quite grasp it. Thus began his rigorous training in combat, overseen by his uncle and renowned knight, Hollister Valanté. The lands the noble family of Valanté hail from differ dramatically in combat compared to more traditional methods in Tharros, and such reflected in their more intense and artistic manner of fighting. It bred a focus on athleticism and physical flexibility as well as relying on the tools around them - making for Luke to first achieve mastery from wooden sticks to staffs, and from cattle whips to custom combat whips and a diverse array of blades and swords alike. With how intensely rigorous his training was, it certainly created a man well enough off to rely strictly on himself, but also made him less capable of working in groups or team settings.

Competitive: Lucian very much commits to even the most tame of competitions fiercely. From tourney competitions to feats of athleticism and sparring, Luke has a tendency to get rather intense and occasionally aggressive. It’s not that he’s a sore loser, he’ll walk away from a loss with no hard feelings, especially if he knew it was something he was destined to lose, but he gives it his all. Seriously his all. Competition in any capacity makes him feel accomplished only if he fully invests his capabilities into it regardless of the outcome. So while he may not always initiate something worth competing in, he is the first to commit to the opportunity.

Gruff: Tough love is the only love Lucian knows and the only kind he generally gives. He’s not crudely insensitive or impartial to empathy, but he does not believe in coddling or talking about feelings. If he absolutely must listen to someone vent their emotional frustrations or woes, that is all he can offer; listening. He’s attuned enough to know his advice and otherwise insertions on delicate matters are not sugar-coated and can cause more harm than good.

Vengeful: Lucian has always been a vengeful creature, plain and simple. He does not forgive slights and does not let them go. Needless to say, if Lucian feels wronged by someone, they’ll know. As much as he would prefer instant gratification in vengeance, he at least has the patience to wait for opportunity if karma doesn’t strike first. The worst offenders to Lucian are liars, betrayers, and oathbreakers. The kind of standards he holds himself to are the kinds he holds to others - someone’s word is their word, and he would expect that to be followed just as he follows his own.

Strengths:

Stamina: Lucian is an individual who is capable of operating at maximum for an extended period of time, being very acutely aware of his boundaries and limitations both physically and mentally

Vigorous: Being a well-bodied young man who can utilize strength and overreaching agility as an asset, he is also a very naturally self-disciplined person who prioritizes health and sustaining energy

Quick Thinker: Intelligence alone is only a strength if one can properly utilize it, and Lucian certainly can with both speed and efficiency. His rapid intellect makes him quick on his feet when it comes to analyzing everything around him, and compelling him to make well-informed decisions in a very short period of time. This also plays a hand in his quick-witted responses and the ability to adapt on a dime if need be.

Quick Reflexes: While not inhuman, Lucian does possess the knack to react to external stimuli quicker than most, if only through rigorous training to react with such speedy accuracy. It serves him well in day-to-day life, as well as in any fight the male may find himself in.

Combat (specifically hand-to-hand, daggers, throwing knives, a small variety of swords, whips, and a wooden staff): Having been introduced to training for the life of a promising combatant at the age of seven, easily Lucian has spent a very long time perfecting the art of combat more than he ever has learning the art of courtly affairs.

Resolve: Lucian’s sense of determination is both unbreaking and unyielding, being a man who is compelled to finish what he starts. Considering all of his decisions are well-informed, regardless of hardships or complications, he will see what he has started done before ever considering defeat, or more negatively, before considering he made the wrong decision.

Weaknesses:

Heavy-Hitting: Not necessarily trained with the intent to be a brute, this is something that Lucian has had to develop with trial and error. This isn’t to say he isn’t powerful in his own right, he just has the ability to be overpowered by men more built to be units of pure strength.

Grudgemaster: With his vengeful streak in mind, needless to say Lucian is a man who tends to hold grudges. Forever. And perhaps even longer than that.

Difficult to Read/Get Close To: As a reserved man, it can be difficult to ever tell what Lucian may truly be thinking or feeling beneath the tempered expression of stoicism he often wears. He doesn’t divulge much personal information, more privy to being a steadfast confidant than confiding in anyone else. Not to say he doesn’t have the capability to lean into genuine exchanges with real substance with those who he may be closer to and trust, but those moments are few and far between.

Barbed-Tongue: It’s often a quality people are not expecting from Lucian considering his silence and thoughtful responses, but when the Prince chooses to make sharp or smarter-mouth comments, they do tend to earn a double-take. He restrains himself often in minding his tongue with comments often sitting on it, though around people he can be more free with, or if someone is particularly a source of irritation, he is not above making piercing remarks.

Long-Range Weaponry: Particularly archery is something Lucian has never grasped, making him a poor game hunter in that sense, and he also struggles with defense of long-range weaponry - also specifically archery.

Passionate: Lucian’s passions can certainly get him a bit carried away. When he feels strongly about something, he can’t help but to lean into it. Love is a dangerous thing to Lucian, knowing himself well enough that he knows he would put a passion he possessed for someone above most else - which is exactly why he purposefully channels most of his burning drive into duty.

Teamwork: While he’s not socially dense, Lucian just doesn’t enjoy working with others, even if he is often required to. He does struggle with communicating in the way group settings would need as he’s accustomed to internalizing information and planning steps for himself rather than sharing, but he’s at the very least trying to work on this area of growth, considering it's enough of a challenge to compel him to overcome it.

Kin:

Khade Beltharian - Father - King of Tharros - 48 Y/O - Alive

Lucrezia Valanté - Mother - Queen Consort of Tharros - 45 Y/O - Alive

Whittaker Beltharian-Valanté - Older Brother - Crown Prince of Tharros - 27 Y/O - Deceased

Anastasia Elsavoy - Sister-in-Law- Wife of Crown Prince Whittaker - 25 Y/O - Alive

Dante Beltharian-Elsavoy - The Lost Heir - Miscarried

Ines Beltharian-Valanté - Younger Sister - Princess of Tharros - 21 Y/O - Alive

Evgeny Beltharian-Valanté - Younger Brother - Prince of Tharros/Heir to House Valanté - 19 Y/O - Alive

Harloe Beltharian-Valanté - Youngest Brother - Prince of Tharros - 14 Y/O - Alive

Sinovia Beltharian-Valanté - Youngest Sister - Princess of Tharros - 9 Y/O - Alive

Hollister Valanté - Uncle (Mother’s Side) - Knight - 54 Y/O - Deceased

Cyrena Beltharian - Aunt (Father’s Side) - Princess of Tharros - 43 Y/O - Alive

Johann Beltharian - Cousin - Knight/Heir to House Lyrantis - 24 Y/O - Alive

--first post eeekk xP So excited--

The garden had smelled of citrus and lavender that day. Elyra remembered the way the blossoms clung to her sleeves, how the sunlight had painted dappled shapes on the flagstones, and how laughter had floated through the breeze like the chime of distant bells. She had been fifteen then, barefoot in the southern courtyard of Highvale, her feet dusty from climbing the old olive tree just to steal a kiss of wind from the treetop.

Theo had been hiding under the archway, a book abandoned at his side, his face smudged with ink and his fingers pricked from another failed attempt at sketching the royal crest. “You climb trees now?” he’d called, smirking. “You planning to abandon your throne for the branches?”

“I’d get more peace there,” Elyra had called down, her braid swinging loose behind her. “And more honesty from the birds than the court. Also, I'm not the Heir. He is." Caelric had stepped into the courtyard then—stoic, armor half-fastened, hair damp from morning drills. He looked every bit the prince their father wanted him to be. A future king carved from discipline and duty, but softened by the quiet glances he reserved only for his younger siblings. “You’ll break your neck, El,” he warned, though there was no real scolding in his voice.

“I’ll land better than you did last summer,” she shot back. He had smiled at that—small, fleeting. But real.

That day, none of them knew what would come. Not the invasion from the east. Not the sickness that would take Theo before the frost returned. Not the fatal ambush at Roewood that would steal Caelric before the war ever truly ended. None of them knew that Elyra would be the last of the Meridiath children. The Sole Heir. And certainly none of them knew she would one day wear a wedding dress sewn for politics, not love, bound to the son of the kingdom that spilled her brothers’ and father's blood.

--flashback to childhood ends here--

The memory broke like a wave, retreating into the haze of snowfall outside the window.

Elyra sat in silence, wrapped in a cloak the color of midnight, the fox-fur trim dusted with frost. The narrow road twisted through the mountain pass like a scar, hemmed in by jagged cliffs and the low, creeping fog of Tharrosi winter. Each turn of the wheel echoed against stone. The rhythmic clatter of hooves was the only steady sound—other than her thoughts. She had not spoken since crossing the border.

Two guards rode ahead, their cloaks marked with the twin crests of Tharros and Velenthia—a hollow show of unity, performed for the mountain spirits and the crows that watched from the peaks. The rest of her escort remained behind, swallowed by the winding road. Elyra’s gloved hand rested over a small square of cloth in her lap: a lavender-dyed handkerchief embroidered with her mother’s initials. The scent was faint now, nearly gone, but she kept it close.

She had not cried. She hadn’t cried when Caelric’s sword was returned without his body. She hadn’t cried when Theo’s fever finally quieted his dreams. She hadn’t cried when the High Council offered her up like a peace token, the last Meridiath child, pressed into a marriage to unite Velenthia with the very realm that had once laid siege to their capital. But now, alone in the carriage with only the cold for company, she closed her eyes and let the silence ache.

--flashback begins--

“Come here, Elyra,” Queen Serelyne had said gently, her hands busy with parchment, her voice full of tired grace. “Sit beside me.” Elyra had hesitated in the doorway. Her mother had always been a composed figure, regal even in grief. But after Theo’s funeral, something had shifted in her. She had taken to long silences and slow, lingering glances out the window—as if searching for the children who no longer filled the halls. “I know what this is about,” Elyra had said, folding her arms. “The council voted. The treaty has been signed. I am to be delivered like an olive branch in a wedding veil.”

Serelyne’s quill stilled. She looked up, her pale grey eyes rimmed with fatigue. “No,” she said softly. “You are to be remembered. You are the last song of this house, Elyra. The last daughter of Halrian. The last heartbeat of your father’s line. That crown may not rest on your brow, but it will ride in your blood.”

“And what good is blood if it’s only spilled?” Elyra snapped, voice too sharp, too brittle. “I’m to marry a prince of Tharros—do you think I’ve forgotten what they did? What we lost?”

“I have not forgotten,” Serelyne said, standing. She moved with quiet authority, the weight of two dead sons stitched into every step. “But I have chosen to remember differently. Your father dreamed of a future Velenthia not ruled by vengeance. I will not see his daughter lost to it.” Elyra had looked away then, eyes stinging. “I’m not like you,” she had whispered.

“I pray that you never have to be,” Serelyne had answered. Then she pressed something into Elyra’s hand: a handkerchief. Lavender-dyed, soft as breath. A queen’s keepsake.

“One day,” her mother said, “when you feel yourself hardening, when your anger grows louder than your voice—hold this. And remember that gentleness has power, too.”

--end of flashback--

The carriage jolted as one of its wheels dipped into a rut along the frost-bitten road, shaking Elyra from her thoughts. She blinked once, then twice, dragging her gaze away from the blurred window, where the trees grew taller and darker with every passing league. Gone were the soft birches of Velenthia’s borders—here the forests were ancient, jagged things, cloaked in a permanent hush. A Tharrosi hush. As if even the wind had learned silence within these lands. Elyra sat cloaked in silver and storm-grey furs, her spine stiff against the upholstered seat. Her fingers, clad in wool-lined gloves, clenched tighter around the letter in her lap; the hanker-chief still clutched in her other hand- It was crumpled now, worn thin from rereading. A final note from her mother, penned in haste before her departure: “Remember who you are, my heart. Even when they try to make you forget. Especially then.”

The words clawed at her.

Tharros. She had heard the name since childhood like others heard stories of monsters. Cold, cruel, proud. Their gods had different names, their customs stranger still. They valued strength over charm, silence over softness. She would be foreign in every way—and worse, expected to bend her will to a man known as the Red Prince. Lucian Raelor Beltharian-Valanté. A name that cracked like thunder. They called him “Blade of Tharros,” whispered he was Voybis’s own chosen. A creature of war and bone and discipline.

Her future husband.

The thought tasted like iron.

Outside, snow began to fall—not in gentle flakes like at home, but in needles, sharp and fast, gathering on the edges of the glass like the kingdom meant to remind her she did not belong. She swallowed hard and let herself imagine, just once, what her brother Caelric might have said if he were still alive. Or Theo, laughing and teasing her, trying to make her smile even now. But they were both ghosts, like so many others left behind. And so she said nothing. She did not cry. She simply watched the road snake ahead through the trees, darker and narrower with each turn. The air grew colder too, thinner somehow, like even the gods were watching. She could feel it—something older in the land around her. Something watching.

In the distance, rising out of the cliff-cradled mist, she saw it: towers black as onyx, wrapped in winter’s breath. The Midnight Keep. Her new home. Her new prison. Her new war. And somewhere inside, the man she would be forced to call husband. She sat straighter. Let him be made of blades and shadow. She would learn to cut, too.

The gates yawned open with a groan like old stone, revealing the inner courtyard of the Midnight Keep. Elyra felt the carriage slow, its wheels crunching over frost-hardened gravel. Outside the narrow window, figures emerged from the mist like shadows pulled from some otherworldly tale—soldiers in black-and-silver armor with crimson sashes, standing as still as statues beneath banners bearing the sigil of House Beltharian-Valanté: a crowned red rose wrapped in iron thorns. No one spoke. No herald announced her. There were no warm greetings or perfumed petals thrown beneath the wheels. Tharros was not Velenthia. She exhaled quietly, fogging the glass, and then turned her face away from it. Tavien stirred across from her, his brows furrowed. He gave her a look—one of those silent exchanges built from years of friendship. You don’t have to do this alone. She didn’t return it. Because she did.

A hard knock came at the door. Sharp. Precise. Not a servant’s knock. A Tharrosi knock. The door swung open with a hiss of cold air, and Elyra’s lungs seized. The moment she stepped out, she would no longer be just a daughter, a sister, a survivor of war. She would be the Princess of Tharros. A title earned not by birth, but by sacrifice. She let the furs fall back from her shoulders as she stood, descending with practiced grace, her boots touching Tharrosi soil for the first time.

She didn’t shiver, though the air bit at her skin. Her eyes scanned the courtyard. Dozens were watching—some openly, some behind windows—but her gaze moved past them all. She could feel him before she saw him. A weight in the air. A stillness that had nothing to do with the snow. She did not know which of the many figures near the steps was him. But she would. And soon. A servant moved to speak—to gesture toward the grand doors—but Elyra did not move yet. Instead, she stood at the base of the stone steps, straight-backed, cloak trailing slightly in the wind, emerald eyes searching through the veil of frost and faces.

If he wanted a lamb, he would be disappointed. Let him see her. Let them all see. She was not afraid.

The wind at the top of the mountain pass howled like a grieving thing, echoing faintly in the hollow of her hood. The snow had followed them all the way through the final stretch, but here—at the steps of Midnight Keep—it turned to ice, harder and more dangerous. Just like the land. Just like its people.

Elyra stood still, boots crunching into the frost-rimed stone, eyes fixed upward at the towering walls of black stone and iron lattice. Midnight Keep. So named, perhaps, because it swallowed every sliver of light. The great doors loomed before her like the mouth of some slumbering beast, all sharp shadows and grim history. She had imagined it many times since her betrothal was sealed, but it still dwarfed even her worst expectations.

She spotted the King first. Tall, proud, wrapped in heavy dark furs, his gaze direct and unflinching. The Queen beside him was no softer—sleek and beautiful in a lethal way. And then there was him. The Prince. The one she would be expected to marry.

She didn’t allow her eyes to linger. As the King’s voice boomed down from the high stone steps, welcoming her to Tharros and expressing his hope that her journey had not been too arduous, Elyra let the cold settle deeper into her bones before she moved.

She stepped forward alone, ignoring the slight shift of her guards behind her. Her velvet cloak swirled as the wind tried to push her back, as though the mountains themselves were reluctant to let her go further. But her feet did not falter. Her people had bled for this moment. She had bled. The dead marched behind her in silence—Theo, Caelric, her father. She carried their ghosts like weapons. At the base of the stairs, she stopped. She tilted her chin up—not in arrogance, but in refusal to look small. “My King,” she said, her voice clear despite the wind, “our journey was long, and cold… but it would take far more than mountains and snow to deter a daughter of Velenthia.”

She did not smile.

Instead, she let the words rest there, simple but firm. There was pride in them. Not the haughty kind she had seen in other noble daughters, but a deeper, steadier kind. The kind carved from ruins and loss and fire. She inclined her head to the Queen and the others beside her, keeping her posture composed. “Your Majesties. I bring the regards of my mother, Queen Serelyne"

A flicker of wind tugged at her braid, and still she stood tall.

She saw the movement in her periphery—the King gesturing toward his son, his daughter. An invitation into their mountain. Into their cold halls. Into a union built atop grave soil. She didn’t respond right away. Instead, her gaze slid—finally, deliberately—to the man she would be forced to marry. Lucian Beltharian-Valanté. The Red Prince. He wore black, as all Tharrossi did, but no mourning lived in his eyes. There was something harsh about him, angular and unfinished, like a sword still hot from the forge. He didn’t move. Didn’t offer his hand. Didn’t offer anything.

Good, she thought. Then we begin with honesty. Her gaze held his for a breath longer than decorum allowed—testing, measuring. She let him see that she would not avert her eyes. That she had survived too much to flinch now, least of all from a cold prince who looked at her like she was a burden shackled to his future. The King’s voice rang again, bidding them to come in out of the cold. Only after a long moment—long enough to humiliate her in front of both courts—did he descend, slowly, deliberately, until he stood level with her. His eyes were strange: green, yes, but flecked with something darker, like moss choking sunlight. They met hers only briefly before flitting away, as if even looking at her repulsed him.

“Excuse my lack of traditional manners,” he said, his voice low and even, “but I will not be offering you a hand that I’m sure you’re more inclined to refuse than accept.” Elyra blinked. And then—very slightly—she smiled. Not mockingly. Not sweetly. But with that strange, disarming quiet confidence she had carried since she was a girl standing behind the throne of her father’s court. "You are correct,” she said coolly. “I would not have accepted it. But it’s good of you to admit it aloud. We’ll understand one another faster that way.”

She took the first step forward. Inside, the Keep was colder still, not in temperature, but in spirit. Elyra dipped into a formal curtsy—not low, not humble, but court-appropriate. “Your hospitality is most generous, Your Majesty. I am honored to be received with such formality. A private meal would be most welcome.” There was a pause. “Though I must ask one thing.” Her gaze lingered just slightly longer on the Queen, then the King. “Is there a chapel within the Keep? I would like to offer a prayer as it is one of our customs when going to a new place." She waited, Hoping her request- No perhaps it was a demand would receive an honest answer.

Then without word, She followed the Prince.

Lucian turned without a word. She followed. The climb through the corridors was silent. His steps made no sound despite the stone, and she kept pace without difficulty, though her legs ached from the ride. Her servants trailed behind at a respectful distance, burdened with trunks and carefully wrapped heirlooms. She noticed he didn’t speak once, didn’t even bother to comment on the artworks or ancient Tharossi relics adorning the halls.

When they reached the door to her quarters, he pushed it open. She stepped in without waiting for invitation. It was no royal suite. But it was fine—impressive, even—opulent in its own cold Tharossi way. A room carved for survival and status, not comfort.

“If you would prefer to settle within your room, I’ll return before evening to escort you on a tour through the Keep,” Lucian said. Elyra turned to face him fully. This time, she did not smile. “Thank you, Your Highness,” she said. “Though I find the Keep less mysterious than you’d like me to believe. Stone is stone, whether it stands in the mountains or across a sunlit plain.” She took a step closer, her voice lowering so only he would hear. “You may despise this union. So do I. But we owe it to our people not to make a spectacle of our hatred.” Her tone cooled further, glacial and sharp. “And I assure you—I will not give you the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.” And without further word held the door awaiting his departure. The door shut behind her with a heavy finality, muffling the cold murmur of the Keep beyond. Elyra stood still in the silence of her new chambers, her spine straight even though no one was watching. A flicker of firelight danced across the carved stone walls—though the flames in the hearth were small, barely a comfort. The servants had done their best to make the rooms hospitable, no doubt. But warmth here was not in the walls.

She removed her gloves slowly, finger by finger, then tossed them onto the polished table by the window. The frost etched across the glass reminded her of the thin cracks that had begun to spread through everything she once knew—home, family, truth. This room, though technically hers now, was unfamiliar in the deepest, most alienating way. Every stone felt like it had been pulled from the belly of the earth. Cold. Watchful. Weighty.

She unfastened her cloak and let it fall to the floor.

A queen-in-waiting should hang it carefully, she thought. A dutiful bride would smooth the wrinkles, preserve the dignity of presentation. But her dignity had not survived the burial of two brothers. Her sense of duty had changed after fire swallowed the banners of House Meridiath.

Caelric would have hung it properly, she thought bitterly. Theo would have told a joke to lighten the air.

Her fingers hovered over the ivory comb on the vanity before curling away. She didn’t have the heart to undo the braid her mother’s handmaid had woven that morning, back in the sunlit halls of her childhood home. It still smelled faintly of lemon oil and rose—scents too fragile for a place like this. Too alive.

Elyra moved to the window and pushed it open. The air that flooded in was cutting. It smelled of pine, iron, and ice. She breathed it in deeply. This was her new home. Tharros.

A land of stone-walled silence, of storms and gods that answered only to blood. They had brought her here to bind kingdoms together—but she had not come as a lamb. She had come as the daughter of a house gutted by war, as the only survivor of a family that had once stood proud against the tide.

Marriage was the price of peace, they had told her. But peace, Elyra knew, was a strange kind of lie.

She turned from the window and finally sank onto the edge of the vast bed draped in heavy wolf-furs. Her fingers trailed over the stitching on the thick blankets—military. Functional. Not a trace of beauty or softness. She imagined Lucian sleeping in a room not unlike this one, his back straight, his eyes unbothered by the cold. He did not seem like the kind of man who dreamed.

Will he expect me to be soft? she wondered. Will he mistake silence for obedience, composure for consent? She had heard tales of Tharrossi men—raised with blades in their hands and granite in their blood. Lucian had not looked at her with hatred. But he had not looked with kindness, either. And yet… she did not fear him. What Elyra feared, truly, was forgetting. Letting these walls strip away what was left of Velenthia in her. The sun-drenched cliffs. The stained-glass chapel where she had watched her brothers spar before prayers. The scent of wine and oranges in her mother’s hair. The sound of her father’s voice calling her sunbeam in the garden.

Don’t forget their faces, she told herself now. Don’t forget what you came here for. She opened the drawer of the bedside table and pulled out a small cloth-wrapped bundle. Carefully, reverently, she unwrapped it—revealing a strip of crimson velvet with three golden pins: one for her father, one for Caelric, and one for Theo.

Her fingers lingered on Theo’s. The youngest. The kindest. The most eager to believe in treaties and good faith. “You would’ve hated it here,” she whispered aloud, placing the velvet bundle beneath her pillow. “But I’ll carry it. I’ll carry all of it.”

She drew her knees up and sat cross-legged on the furs, back against the headboard. The silence of the Keep was no longer merely quiet—it was smothering. No music drifted up from the halls. No laughter from servants or siblings or court musicians. Even the fire seemed to burn silently here, as if mourning had long ago burned out every song.

Her mother’s words from that last day rose unbidden in her memory:

“There are women who survive, Elyra, and women who endure. But the world remembers those who do both.” She had nodded back then, not truly understanding. But now? Sitting in this cold chamber with only ghosts for company, she understood better than she wished.

Endure.

That was what this place would require of her. Not love. Not trust. Not even alliance, in the truest sense.

Survive first. Endure always. Then decide what peace should look like.

She reached for the journal tucked into the pocket of her trunk and opened to a blank page.Her pen hovered above the paper before she finally began to write:" Day One. The cold here isn’t just weather—it’s inheritance. But I will not be buried beneath it. I will not vanish like my brothers.I will carve my name into the mountain if I must. They will remember Velenthia not for the war we lost, But for the daughter we sent into their den of wolves.” She paused, ink drying. Then she wrote three more names. Not her own.

Caelric. Theo. Halrian.

She traced them twice over. Then she closed the journal and extinguished the lamp. Let the Keep be cold. She would not be.

--fast forward to dinner--

A knock came at the door—two sharp raps, too deliberate to be nervous, too respectful to be commanding.

Elyra straightened from the vanity, where she had been studying her reflection for too long. “Enter,” she called, her voice measured.

The door creaked open and revealed a Tharrossi guard in full ceremonial uniform. His armor was dark steel chased with crimson enamel, the sigil of House Beltharian etched into his chestplate—a roaring black hound framed by spears and flame. His helm remained under his arm, revealing sharp cheekbones, a stern mouth, and eyes that flicked to her and immediately away again.

“My lady,” he said, bowing his head. “The Crown Prince requests your presence at the evening meal.” Not invites. Not welcomes. Requests. The phrasing was deliberate. She let the pause stretch, forcing herself to breathe evenly before she nodded once. “Very well. I’ll be ready shortly.”

The door closed again, and silence fell—except for the low crackle of the fire and the sound of her pulse, steady now, but thrumming with the pressure of being seen. Not as Elyra, daughter of Queen Serelyne, but as a piece in a fragile treaty.

She rose and stepped back in front of the mirror. Her handmaid—one of the few allowed to travel with her—had done well to interpret the instructions she’d given before leaving Velenthia: Dignity. Power. No silk flowers.

Elyra wore a gown of deep garnet velvet, so rich in hue it verged on blood-black in the low light. The bodice was sharply tailored, cinched at her waist with a series of tiny black clasps shaped like rose thorns. A square neckline revealed the pale line of her collarbone, dusted faintly with shimmered powder. The sleeves tapered close along her arms, flaring slightly at the wrists where dark lace caught the firelight.

No embellishments glimmered on the skirt—no embroidery, no jewels—only the velvet’s soft weight, cascading like wine over her hips and brushing the stone floor. Around her neck she wore a thin chain of star-forged gold, bearing a single charm: a stylized sunburst, the crest of Velenthia’s fallen House. She had polished it herself before dressing. It was not large, but it was defiant.

Her hair had been coiled into a braided crown, set high and tight across the back of her head to frame her face without softening it. Tiny black obsidian pins were tucked between the strands—not sparkling, but catching the light like slivers of volcanic glass. No earrings. No gloves. No smile. Elyra looked at herself, then leaned in close to the mirror. “Let them see what they’ve bartered for,” she whispered. “Not a flower. A flame.”

With that, she turned, opened the door, and nodded at the waiting guard. He said nothing as they walked, but she could feel the weight of his glances, quick and assessing—likely reporting every detail to someone higher. The halls they moved through were torchlit and narrow, carved into the heart of Midnight Keep like veins into a mountain. The stones here were old, darker than the pale marbles of Velenthia’s coastal palaces, and laced with minerals that shimmered faintly in the flickering light.

As they passed through a larger corridor, Elyra caught her reflection in a narrow bronze wall-sconce. The garnet velvet looked nearly black here, like dried blood. The sunburst at her throat was no longer a beacon—but a wound. She drew her chin up higher.

They descended a short flight of stairs, boots clicking against the stone. Two Tharrossi guards at the base of the corridor stood to attention as she passed, saying nothing, their eyes unreadable beneath their helms. One of them, taller and with a crimson sash across his shoulder, gave a shallow nod of acknowledgment.

They’re watching. Measuring. Weighing.

Finally, they reached the great doors of the dining hall. They were carved from thick blackwood, their surfaces etched with scenes of old Tharrossi legend—battles, gods, beasts, men being crowned in the snow. She paused just long enough to take it in, then looked up at the guard beside her.

“I won’t need escort inside,” she said quietly, with just enough edge to make it clear she was not afraid.The man hesitated, then inclined his head. “As you wish, Princess.” He turned, posted himself at the wall.

Elyra took one breath.Then another.

Then stepped forward—alone. The doors groaned open before her, revealing the long fire-lit hall, the long table already partially filled. The heads turned. The voices hushed. And all eyes fell upon the girl in garnet velvet, framed by stone and torchlight, her face expressionless as a statue—but her eyes gleaming with the unspoken vow of someone who had already buried kings.