In the kingdom of Everburn, within the castle of Everburn, ruled the royal family of Everburn. A dynasty of warlords turned monarchs, they had held their throne for over a thousand years, their power carved into the nd with fire and steel.

  They were not a family given to creativity, nor were they subtle in what they valued. Their name was a decration, their legacy a warning. And in all their long reign, no one had possessed the power—or the audacity—to tell them otherwise.

  Everburn Castle was built for war. Its bck stone walls, thick as fortress towers, had once withstood siege engines and sorcery alike. Every corridor had been designed for defense, every staircase built to slow an advancing enemy. The outer gates, reinforced with iron and engraved with the roaring sigil of the Everburn line, had never been breached. It was a pce where armies had cshed, where banners had burned, where history had been written in blood.

  But time had a way of dulling even the sharpest bde.

  Thirty years of peace had softened the castle, not in structure, but in spirit. The great iron chains that once hauled boiling oil to the ramparts now rusted in their mounts. The once-imposing murder holes over the main gate had been repurposed as nesting grounds for doves. The armory still held weapons enough to outfit an army, but the men who trained with them did so out of tradition rather than necessity. Even the banners—once stiff with soot and battle grime—now hung too clean, too well-kept, as if the past had been neatly folded away.

  The castle had not forgotten war. But war had, for the moment, forgotten it.

  In its highest chamber, Princess Everburn stood before the tall mirror, adjusting the heavy brocade of her gown. The deep red fabric shimmered in the candlelight, embroidered with golden thread that curled like fme. It was a dress meant to impress, to command attention. She despised it.

  It reminded her of what she was—what she was meant to be. An heir to the Everburn dynasty who had never seen war. A rarity in her bloodline. A consequence of peace.

  An existence she’d found more happiness in than she’d openly admit, especially to her father. But today she was being reminded of what duties such a position entailed.

  Her hands moved with practiced ease as she gathered a letter from her desk. The wax seal had long since been broken, the words inside committed to memory. Yet still, she stared at them. The script was bold but graceless, a man’s attempt at eloquence without subtlety.

  Beyond the letter, past the stone parapets, the nd stretched wide—the castle woods, the nearby vilge, the rolling fields, and now, a trail of dust kicked up by approaching riders. A dozen men on horseback, their armor catching the morning sun, their banners snapping in the wind. At their head, undoubtedly, was Lord Harriot.

  Everburn exhaled slowly, letting the letter slip from her fingers onto polished wood.

  Her family did not flinch. Her family did not waver. Her family did not feel.

  She reached for the neckce id before her, a weight of gold and rubies. The metal was cold against her fingers as she fastened it around her throat, and for a moment, she swore she felt it tighten—like a colr. A leash. No one would call it that, but she knew.

  The mirror caught her gaze again. The same crimson hair, the same sharp eyes, the same mouth set in a firm, unreadable line. She reached for the rings next, sliding them onto her fingers one by one. The weight of them was familiar. Symbols of power. Symbols of obligation.

  Her voice, when it came, was quiet but steady.

  “Your duty is clear. Peace has held. You must wed one of our own noble houses to ensure the kingdom remains strong from within. Either way, your hand is a political tool, and your heart has no pce in the matter.”

  The final piece was the golden circlet of her station. She pced it upon her brow, its weight pressing against her skull like a hand, grounding her.

  “Lord Harriot comes to cim me today.”

  The word ‘cim’ left her lips like iron striking stone. The mirror shuddered in its frame. The jewelry on the table gave the faintest rattle. The candle beside her flickered, its fme bending as if in sudden fear.

  She closed her eyes and exhaled. Slowly. Deliberately. She had to remain calm, lest there be consequences. No matter who she married, no matter the politics at py, the power would always reside with her family. With her.

  The stillness returned. The castle walls held firm.

  Princess Everburn straightened her posture.

  “So, it begins.”