The grand throne room was silent in the way only power could afford.
I stood before the dais, hands folded behind my back, gaze fixed upon the doors as though my will alone could summon them open. The banners hung unmoving. Even the torches seemed to burn lower in my presence, as if the hall itself understood restraint.
They were late.
I did not sit.
This proposal was not a matter of romance or sentiment, no matter how the court preferred to dress it. It was strategy. Continuity. Survival. Zaeran’s future would not be left to chance, nor to softness.
Rostamir of the Elysium Veil was not a gentle man. That, precisely, was the appeal.
A prince raised among ancient law and blood-bound loyalty. A future tyrant, if history held true—but a just one. The kind of ruler who understood that mercy without fear was weakness.
The kind of man who would not hesitate when the world demanded cruelty.
Zaeran would despise me for this.
The thought did not move me.
It hadn't for a long time now. And it should've concerned me but it didn't.
She had been raised in my image for a reason. Sternness could be taught. Strength could be enforced. But protection—true, irreversible protection—required alliances forged in iron, not affection.
Hatred could be endured.
A ruined future could not.
The doors finally opened.
Two figures entered, flanked by attendants: Lord Caldrien Veyr, tall and austere, his silver-threaded robes immaculate; and beside him Lady Maereth Veyr, her posture regal, eyes sharp with quiet calculation.
The parents of Prince Rostamir. The true architects behind the throne of the Elysium Veil.
But the prince himself was absent.
They bowed low.
“Your Majesty,” Lord Caldrien said. “You have our deepest apologies for the delay.”
Lady Maereth inclined her head. “We regret keeping you waiting.”
“I was under the impression your son would attend,” I replied evenly.
A flicker—quick, practiced—passed between them.
“Prince Rostamir was detained by council matters,” Lady Maereth said smoothly. “He sends his regrets and entrusts us to speak fully on his behalf.”
I allowed a pause. Long enough to remind them whose hall they stood in.
“Very well,” I said at last. “Approach.”
They did, taking their seats when gestured to. The air shifted as business replaced ceremony.
We spoke of borders first. Of trade routes and military support. Of succession laws and bloodline compatibility. They were efficient, precise—pleasing qualities in prospective allies.
Then Lady Maereth leaned forward slightly. “Before this proposal is sealed, we would like to see the princess.”
I studied her. “On what grounds?”
“On familial intent,” she answered calmly. “If Zaeran is to be bound to our house, she will not be treated as a political token. She will be raised—honored—as our own daughter.”
Lord Caldrien nodded. “The Veil does not discard its own.”
Something in my chest loosened, just enough to register approval.
“Good,” I said. “Then you understand what is required.”
I turned sharply. “Guards. Bring Princess Zaeran. With her maid.
The command echoed through the hall.
Minutes passed.
Too many.
The silence returned, heavier now, no longer obedient.
Then—
Footsteps. Running.
A guard burst through the doors, breath ragged, armor askew, face drained of all color.
“Your Majesty,” he shouted, voice cracking, dropping to one knee. “The princess—Princess Zaeran—has escaped.”
The words struck the room like a blade.
Lady Maereth stiffened. Lord Caldrien’s expression darkened.
I did not move.
Inside, calculations ignited—routes, accomplices, timing. She had not fled blindly. Zaeran did nothing without intent.
Slowly, I turned back to the court managers.
“It seems,” I said coldly, “that my daughter has made her position known.”
The throne room felt suddenly too small.
And the game—so carefully arranged—had just been overturned.
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