The palace has always had its secrets.
But lately, they've started whispering mine.
It started with the servants.
I walked past two maids in the corridor outside the solar, and they snapped to attention so fast you'd think I carried a sword. Their eyes dropped to the floor, but not before I caught the end of a sentence:
"... they say he doesn't bleed."
I stopped.
They curtsied. Awkward. Guilty.
"Good morning, Your Highness," one of them mumbled.
"Mm-hmm," I said. "Who doesn't bleed?"
Their silence was immediate and deafening.
I narrowed my eyes. "If you're going to spread terrifying rumors about my future husband, at least include details."
The taller maid flushed. "Forgive us, Princess. It's just...
They say the Crown Prince of Caelorth isn't..." She glanced at her companion. "Isn't entirely... *human.*"
I blinked.
"Do go on."
---
Apparently, there are stories.
They say Kieran led a battalion into battle single-handedly when he was sixteen and came back without a scratch. That he once silenced a rebel uprising by walking into their camp alone and emerging before nightfall with their leader's blade—and head.
They say he doesn't sleep. That his eyes glow red in the dark. That he was born of a thunderstorm and marked by the gods.
You know. Normal fiancé things.
I tried to laugh it off. Chalk it up to gossip. Wartime embellishments. Men do one impossible thing and suddenly they're immortal. (Must be nice.)
But then I heard it again.
And again.
Not just from maids, but from guards. Councilmen. A passing merchant from the north who crossed himself when he heard the name Kieran of Caelorth.
---
Dorian wasn't helpful.
"He has a reputation," he said casually over tea. "Some say myth, some say monster."
"And you're just fine sending me to marry a potential mythological creature?"
He sipped. "Better a myth than a known tyrant."
Fair point. Rude tone.
Seraphina, on the other hand, was *delighted.*
"What if he's actually a war god cursed into mortal flesh and you're the key to his redemption arc?"
"I'm not starring in one of your novels, Sera."
"You could be! Maybe you touch his hand and it burns with holy light and suddenly you're bonded for eternity—"
"Please stop."
"Or he kisses you and you get war magic—"
"Sera."
She just grinned. "You're no fun."
---
But that night, I went to the library.
Not for novels.
For records.
I pulled every scroll I could find on Caelorth. Histories. Lineages. Battle reports. Anything that mentioned *Kieran.*
Most were vague. Victories, dates, treaties. Nothing strange.
But one passage stuck out:
The Black Wolf of Caelorth does not fall in battle. He moves like smoke. Strikes like divine wrath. Some say the gods marked him in the cradle. Some say he is one.
I shut the scroll. My hands were cold.
Maybe it was all just stories.
Maybe I was letting nerves turn into nightmares.
But when I looked down at the letter he'd sent me—now worn at the edges from how many times I'd read it—
I couldn't help but wonder:
What if the ma
n I'm about to marry isn't just feared?
What if he's worshipped?
And what, exactly, does that make me?