King Harran's letter lingered in King Theron's thoughts long after the parchment had been folded away.
It wasn't just a message of congratulations.
It was a warning.
A summons.
A test wrapped in velvet words.
Elara sat in the royal greenhouse, where moonflowers bloomed only beneath starlight. The petals glowed faintly, pulsing in time with the beating of her heart. Her hand hovered over the blossoms, not touching, just… sensing.
There was something alive in everything now.
She wasn't alone.
"He rides with a thousand," M's voice said from the shadows between ivy-covered pillars. "Prince Kael. Eldoria's only heir. Forged in fire. Schooled in war. Not known for diplomacy."
Elara glanced up. "So he's not here for peace."
"He's here for what the Stone chose," M replied, watching her carefully. "And now the world believes that choice was you."
Elara exhaled. "Then let him see me clearly."
At the palace gates, banners of crimson and silver unfurled with the wind Eldoria's sigil of a crowned wolf gleaming against the twilight sky.
Drums boomed. Horns sang. The people gathered in the outer court, straining to see what kind of prince could stir such tremors with his arrival.
The obsidian carriage stopped.
Prince Kael stepped out without flourish. His armor bore travel dust, but his spine was straight, and his eyes sharp like an ice-gray, with none of the chill. He carried himself not like a prince eager to impress, but like a man who already knew his worth.
The Empress greeted him with a curtsy laced in strategy. Isla stood beside her, the very image of royal perfection, her dress threaded with emeralds, her hair in golden waves.
Kael gave a polite bow.
"I come bearing peace," he said, voice calm.
"And curiosity," the Empress finished, studying him.
He didn't answer. His eyes had already drifted elsewhere
Past Isla.
Past the silks and golden steps.
To the figure standing motionless beside a flame-shaped beast at the edge of the crowd.
Elara.
She stood in black and gold, the fire beast curled beside her like a living myth. She wore no crown, no jewels. Just quiet power.
Kael's lips tilted. not in mockery.
In fascination.
That evening, the court gathered for the grand banquet. Candles floated midair above tables filled with delicacies. Wine flowed. Music rose and fell like tides.
Elara didn't sit at the royal table.
She took her place by the hearth, the flames reflecting in her eyes. Across the room, Kael observed her. He ignored Isla's attempts at conversation, her laughter loud, her perfume heavy.
At last, he rose.
Walked the hall.
And stopped before Elara.
"They say fire bows to you."
She looked up, calm. "And yet you carry steel. Afraid I'll burn you?"
Kael chuckled, surprising even himself. "Maybe. Or maybe I just want to see if the stories are true."
She stood.
The music faltered. The room hushed.
"Then watch closely," Elara said, and extended her hand.
He took it.
They danced,not like nobles but like rivals circling flame. Each step deliberate, each turn an exchange of power.
The fire behind them surged.
And the court forgot how to breathe.
Later that night…
In Isla's chambers, a goblet of wine shattered against the wall.
"They all stared at her!" she screamed. "He barely looked at me!"
Lady Marellia didn't flinch. "Tantrums won't win you heirs."
"I'm the Empress's daughter," Isla hissed. "Not her."
"But it wasn't your name the Stone whispered."
Isla's eyes narrowed. "She's no one."
"Then show them that," Marellia replied."
Isla turned to the mirror, fists clenched. "I will."
In the Empress's private solar, she stood alone at the window, hands clasped behind her back.
The King entered, quiet as smoke.
"He didn't come for Isla."
"No," the Empress agreed. "But Isla still has a role to play."
He stepped closer. "Do you want the fire you stirred devours her too?"
She turned to face him, eyes cold. "Then we'll make sure it burns on our terms."
Meanwhile, in a guest chamber lit only by moonlight, Kael stood before his open window.
He should've been resting.
Instead, he whispered to the stars.
"She doesn't bow."
And something in his chest, a place carved by duty and battle felt warmer than it had in years.