They arrived at noon—three Caelorthian riders on horses so dark they looked carved from shadow. Of course they did
Why send a normal welcome party when you can send your future in-laws' men dressed like they're about to assassinate someone in cold blood?
The throne room had been dusted to within an inch of its life. Father stood beside me, his crown freshly polished, face locked into his best diplomatic grimace. I had on my good gown—the pale gold one with the stiff embroidery that made me walk like an angry statue. My tiara sat too tight on my head, and I was already sweating through my corset.
"Try to smile," my father murmured.
I smiled. Just not with my eyes.
The Caelorthians dismounted and approached. The one in front had a thin scar across his mouth and eyes like frozen lakewater. Definitely a soldier. Definitely not the one I was marrying.
He bowed low. "Princess Chloe of Veylinthia. King Hadrian. I bring you greetings from Crown Prince Kieran of Caelorth."
His voice was calm. Almost too calm. Like he didn't get nervous. Or feel. Or blink.
"Welcome to Veylinthia," Father said, doing his kingly thing. "Please, rest. Eat. Our palace is your home."
The soldier looked at me again. "His Highness sends a letter."
He handed me a black envelope sealed with deep silver wax. The crest was unfamiliar—elegant lines, thorns curling through a crown. I broke the seal with my thumb, aware of everyone's eyes on me, and unfolded the parchment inside.
The handwriting was sharp. Like sword points trying to behave.
---
Princess,
I hope this letter finds you in good health. It is my intention to arrive in Veylinthia within a fortnight. Until then, know that I am aware of the weight this alliance places on you. I do not ask for affection. Only duty. Respect, where earned. And honesty, above all.
Kieran of Caelorth
---
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
No compliments. No warm wishes. No promises of future happiness. Just this weird mix of brutal honesty and formal steel.
I couldn't decide if I wanted to throw the letter in the fire or press it to my chest and sigh.
"He seems... charming," Seraphina whispered later when I read it aloud in the solar. She was painting a tiny skull onto one of her dolls and sipping lemonade like we weren't discussing my looming political marriage.
"He seems like someone who bathes with a dagger on the edge of the tub," I muttered.
Dorian, who was lounging on the window seat like a bored cat, raised a brow. "You know, that might actually be a good sign."
"How?"
"It means he doesn't pretend to be something he's not."
I hated that he was right.
Still. I folded the letter and slid it into my pocket. Not my jewelry box. Not my drawer. My pocket.
It didn't mean anything.
But it also kind of... did.
---
That night, I dreamt of thorns wrapped around
a crown, and eyes the color of ice, watching me through the dark.