The skyship descended like a floating predator, its black sails casting long shadows over the courtyard as it moored above the golden towers of Solvyris. Trumpets blared, banners unfurled, and the royal court lined the marble steps in ceremonial silence.
Princess Seris Valenyra stood at the top of those steps, cloaked in scarlet silk and duty.
The sun had barely risen, yet she had been dressed for an hour—armored in elegance, her dark hair pinned in waves and threaded with tiny gold-embered charms. Her hands, freshly bandaged and hidden by gloves, throbbed beneath her sleeves. But pain was a language she had learned to speak without flinching.
Lord Darek Varyn's skyship settled lower, releasing a hiss of steam as docking runes sealed into place. From the gangplank stepped a man dressed in silverplate armor and obsidian velvet, his golden-blond hair falling in perfect waves around a proud, angular face.
He was handsome, in the way a statue might be: cold, deliberate, and utterly void of warmth.
He approached the steps slowly, each footfall echoing like a declaration. When he reached the top, he bowed—not deeply—and took her hand in his.
"Princess Seris," he said, voice smooth and sharp as a dagger wrapped in silk. "It has been too long."
"Not long enough," she murmured before she could stop herself.
His smile didn't falter. "Still fierce. I admire that in a woman."
She resisted the urge to yank her hand away.
Behind them, Queen Alaryss stepped forward. "Welcome, Lord Varyn. Your journey from Virelya was swift?"
"Smooth skies and no storms," he replied. "The elements favor our union."
Seris nearly snorted. The only union she felt was the knot in her stomach.
They entered the great hall beneath a ceiling of carved obsidian and glass. As servants poured wine and the court took their places, Seris sat stiffly beside Darek at the high table. Every movement felt rehearsed. Every glance a performance.
She hated it.
Halfway through the feast, Darek leaned close. "I hear you've been playing with fire again."
She turned to him, her face unreadable. "You've been spying on me."
"I have informants," he said simply. "I prefer to know what I'm marrying."
"Then you should be afraid," she said. "Because I'm not what you think."
"Oh, I hope not," he said with a smirk. "Predictable women bore me."
She smiled sweetly. "Then you'll die screaming."
He blinked, unsure whether she was joking. She wasn't.
The rest of the meal passed in strained pleasantries and poisoned compliments.
Afterward, Seris escaped to the palace gardens—her sanctuary.
The air was heavy with the scent of burning roses, their petals infused with ember magic to bloom even under ashfall. She walked past the enchanted fountains and whispered to the winds, hoping for silence.
Instead, she heard voices.
"…You weren't supposed to arrive yet."
"I go where I must. The winds don't ask permission."
She paused, hidden behind a wall of ivy. The voice—low, edged in wind and steel—was familiar. Too familiar.
Seris stepped through the hedge without thinking.
A man stood at the garden's edge, back turned to her. His cloak was the color of storm clouds, fastened with a sky-crystal brooch. Pale hair stirred in the breeze, and as he turned, their eyes met.
Gold met gold.
It was him.
The man from the fire.
He froze as recognition dawned in his gaze.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Seris whispered, "Who are you?"
He bowed slightly, never breaking eye contact. "Kaelen Thorne. Envoy of Cael'Thorne, House of the Sky."
A lie.
She could feel it in her bones.
But another truth pulsed just beneath her skin—the fire recognized him. As if her soul had been waiting for his all along.
She drew a slow breath. "Welcome to Solvyris, Kaelen Thorne."
He smiled, just faintly.
"And you, Princess… are not what I expected."