— Princess Aveline Ravelynn of Elaria
I took a breath that didn't help.
The walls of the corridor felt too narrow now, too close, like I'd wandered into a space not meant for me — or not meant for who I was about to become.
My heels whispered against the polished floors as I stepped back from the edge of the throne hall. I'd seen them. The two kings. And they had seen me. I felt it, like a pressure under my skin that hadn't eased since.
Their eyes didn't carry fear. Or even challenge. They carried recognition.
I didn't look away fast enough.
"Aveline?" Lira's voice pulled me back. She'd caught up, a little out of breath, smoothing the edge of my train with care. "You shouldn't linger back here."
I swallowed and nodded. "I know."
"Your father's waiting."
Of course he was.
I drew myself up and took one last look over my shoulder. The doors had shut behind the newly arrived delegations. Including them.
I wasn't ready to walk back in, but I was already expected. Already watched.
So I turned, smiled like the mirror had taught me, and stepped into the long corridor that led to the Grand Hall — the one that would hold the feast, the introductions, the formalities. The performances.
Guards flanked the entrance, both of them straightening at the sight of me. I recognized neither, and neither dared meet my eyes for long.
At least Lira stayed close.
"Are you alright?" she murmured as we walked. "You look… pale."
"I'm just tired."
She gave me a look that didn't believe me. But she nodded. She always did.
The Grand Hall was alive. Loud, bright, almost suffocating with the sheer amount of perfume, silk, metal, and expectation crammed into one place.
Chandeliers gleamed above us like stars. Tables spilled with fruits, roasted meats, glazed pastries still steaming. Banners from every kingdom — the pale lion of Virelia, the sapphire phoenix of Caerwyn, the black bear of Thornehold — draped along the walls, fluttering slightly from the drafts of motion and whispers.
And at the far end of the endless, gilded table, they sat.
The Kings of Dravareth.
Lucan Velshar and Rhysand Varynthal.
Even from here, they didn't look like anyone else.
Lucan, cold and regal, all sharp lines and silence, with a presence so still it made him more dangerous, not less. His husband beside him, Rhysand, leaned slightly forward, speaking in hushed tones, his face more open, but no less powerful. Dark, composed, beautiful.
They weren't just different.
They were other.
And somehow… it didn't frighten me.
My father found me before I could steal another glance.
"Aveline," he said tightly, offering his arm. "It's time."
He didn't smile.
He didn't even look at me.
I took his arm anyway.
He led me from one suitor to the next — kings, princes, lords, each introduced with their full titles and flattering words. I smiled. I curtsied. I nodded at compliments. But I wasn't really there.
I was still wondering why those two kings had looked at me like that.
And why I couldn't stop thinking about it.
One king was older — I tried not to wrinkle my nose — and thankfully introduced his son, not himself. The prince was polite, even charming, but it felt like we were speaking in someone else's script.
Another prince tried to offer me a necklace on the spot. My father declined it for me before I could say a word.
"Too eager," he muttered under his breath. "Desperate, even."
I wanted to ask, And what are we?
But I didn't.
Lira caught up again as I stood by the far window between introductions. The table was nearly full now.
Except for one space… across from where I stood, at the very edge.
Lucan Velshar sat straight-backed, not eating, barely moving. Watching. He didn't hide it. Neither did his husband.
I turned slightly, pretending to admire the dessert platters, but my eyes flicked back to them — just once more.
They were still looking at me.
Lira followed my gaze and tensed. "Them."
"Yes."
"They're married, you know," she whispered. "To each other. That's… not something people speak of openly. Not here."
"I know."
"They're feared," she added. "Not just because of who they are. But what they can do. They say Dravareth's armies walk in shadows. That Lucan's sword never leaves his side. That Rhysand can outwit generals twice his age."
I didn't answer right away.
Instead, I asked quietly, "Do you know how they met?"
Lira blinked. "No one does."
I looked back at them.
Lucan's gaze didn't waver. Rhysand's was quieter, as though reading me the way one might read a very old, dangerous book.
They didn't smile.
Neither did I.
"Enough staring," came my father's voice again, cutting the air like a blade. "Come. We haven't yet greeted them."
I turned to him sharply. "You want to greet them?"
He gritted his teeth. "I want to avoid war."
That was answer enough.
He took my arm again — firm this time — and we walked.
Each step closer, I felt it again. That strange hum beneath my ribs. That sense that something had shifted already, and the rest of me hadn't caught up.
Lucan rose first, then Rhysand, both like shadows lifting off the earth.
My father forced a smile. A poor one.
"Kings of Dravareth," he said stiffly. "Welcome to Elaria."
Neither bowed.
Lucan's voice, when it came, was low and even. "King Alaric. Princess Aveline."
He said my name like it meant something.
Rhysand bowed his head just slightly. "An honor."
My hand twitched where it rested on my gown.
I curtsied. "The honor is ours."
I meant it.
Even if I didn't know why.