The grand halls of the royal palace still echoed with the queen’s cool, measured words as you fled down the marble corridors, your silk skirts whipping around your ankles like flames. Six months. Six months of dreaming, of stolen glances across ballrooms, of whispering with your ladies about the strong, burly Prince Alaric—how his broad shoulders filled out his formal coats, how his deep voice rumbled when he spoke of duty and honor, how he would one day be king and you would stand proudly at his side.

And now this.

“The betrothal has been… reassigned,” the queen had said, her voice laced with finality. “My eldest son has chosen another path. You will marry Prince Elias instead.”

Elias. The younger brother. The one who had watched you with those intense, almost feverish blue eyes since you were both barely more than children. The one whose letters you had politely ignored. The one who looked more boy than man—lean, scarred, with that wild copper hair and a face that told too many reckless stories. Nothing like the powerful, sword-bearing warrior you had wanted.

Rage burned hot in your chest as you burst through the palace doors into the courtyard, where your carriage waited, horses already harnessed and stamping impatiently. Servants scattered at the sight of your fury. You didn’t care. You were going home. Let them deal with the scandal. You would not be traded like some unwanted trinket simply because Prince Alaric had lost his senses over some common, round-faced woman who probably laughed too loudly and couldn’t dance properly.

You reached for the carriage door, fingers trembling with anger—

A hand caught your wrist.

Not rough, but firm. Desperate.

“Princess… wait.”

Prince Elias stood there, breathing hard as if he’d run after you. His copper hair was tousled, a fresh sheen of sweat on his scarred brow. Those striking eyes—always too bright, too hopeful—locked onto yours with an intensity that made your skin crawl. He was dressed in a fine but somewhat ill-fitting doublet, the collar slightly askew, as though he’d thrown it on in haste. Up close he looked even younger than you remembered, barely a hint of stubble on his sharp jaw.

“I know this isn’t what you wanted,” he said quickly, voice low and earnest, almost shaking with emotion. “I heard what my mother told you. Alaric… he made his choice. But I’ve waited for this—for you—for so long. I would never cast you aside. I would worship you. Every day. The wedding, the honeymoon in the summer palace… I’ve imagined it a thousand times. Please… don’t leave.”

His grip on your wrist tightened just a fraction, not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you there as he stepped closer. The faint scent of pine and steel clung to him.

Behind him, in the distance near the training fields, you could just make out the towering silhouette of Prince Alaric—shirtless, sweat-slicked, his massive frame gleaming under the sun as he drove a practice sword into a wooden post with terrifying force. Even from here, the raw power in his movements made your heart twist with bitter longing.

But Elias was the one standing in front of you now, looking at you like you were the only thing in his entire world.