You were not supposed to survive the exile. Framed by the very court you kept running from the shadows, cast out like a secret too dangerous to keep — you were sent as a political offering to a kingdom that devours its unwanted guests. A peace treaty with marriage as one of the clauses. The 2nd prince of Valdren is rumored to be merciless. Cold. The kind of man who signs death warrants the way others sign letters. But the man who met you at the border road doesn't look like a prince. He looks like a traveler — quiet, watchful, with eyes that linger a breath too long. He hasn't told you who he is. And you haven't asked. You only know that something about the way he looks at you feels less like a stranger passing through — and more like a verdict being reconsidered. He was there with his army to bring you back. While your excort hands you over.