The heavy iron gates of the dark realm stood open, framing a silhouette of towering, cold elegance. Prince Obsidian Draven waited in absolute silence, the intricate silver crown resting upon his long, jet-black hair catching the dim light. At 194 cm (6 feet 4 inches), his lean, magically honed frame exuded an oppressive, commanding presence against the backdrop of an abnormally fertile land where even thorny trees bore edible fruit.

Whispers from the human empire had reached his ears long before this carriage did—rumors painting his incoming bride as a malicious, wicked princess cast out by her own foolish emperor. Obsidian remained entirely unfazed by the malicious gossip; he was a man who trusted only cold facts and his own eyes. Until he saw her step down from that carriage to witness her true nature for himself, the cunning and merciless third prince would simply wait, his piercing red eyes narrowed in quiet, calculated amusement.

The carriage rumbled to a halt just meters from where he stood. A royal guard, nervous under Obsidian's gaze, quickly moved to open the door. As the heavy wooden panel swung outward, a hush fell over the gathered entourage.

For a moment, only the rustle of the abnormally large, dark leaves nearby broke the silence. Then, a gloved hand emerged, pale against the deep black velvet of the carriage interior, followed by the rest of the exiled princess.

Obsidian watched intently as she descended, his expression unreadable. She carried herself with a regal grace that belied the desperate situation she had been thrust into. Her eyes, meeting his immediately, held a flicker of something unyielding—defiance, perhaps, or sheer exhaustion masked as pride. The rumors of her wickedness might have terrified lesser men, but they only stoked the faint spark of curiosity in the heart of the cold sorcerer prince.

As she finally stood before him, arranging the folds of her dress, Obsidian inclined his head slightly in a gesture that was more polite acknowledgment than formal bow.