-Lucan Velshar, Dravareth:
The sun sat high above the blackened peaks of Dravareth, harsh and unforgiving, casting molten gold across the courtyard. Heat shimmered off the obsidian stone tiles like smoke from a dying pyre. The scent of sweat and steel clung to the air, thick and sharp, as I twisted to parry a strike.
Blades clanged. My foot pivoted. The soldier to my left lunged; I dropped low, swept his legs, and caught the second man's strike with a sharp, upward clash of steel. Sparks flew between us. My breath burned in my chest, but my muscles moved with precision—trained, lethal, honed over decades of war.
The tunic I wore was soaked through, clinging to my skin. My gloves were slick, but I did not loosen my grip. Dravareth's kings did not falter. Not on the battlefield. Not in the training yard. Not even beneath the weight of expectation.
And I knew I was being watched.
My husband sat beneath the carved stone archway just beyond the courtyard, draped in black and bronze robes, his crown resting beside him on the table.
Rhysand's dark eyes never left me. They followed every shift of my weight, every step, every twitch of the blade. He studied me not like a warrior would—but like a lover memorizing his favorite scar.
I finished the spar with a clean, final blow—steel at the throat of the last soldier, both of us panting. Then I stepped back and lowered my blade.
"Enough," I said.
The soldiers bowed, their breathing ragged, faces pale with exertion. I nodded toward them—approval earned. They left the courtyard without a word, knowing better than to speak unless spoken to in Dravareth's palace.
The second they were gone, Rhysand rose from his chair and crossed the courtyard, barefoot on the hot stone like it didn't burn him. A chilled flask waited in his hand, and he offered it to me without a word.
I took it. Drank deep.
The water was cold, sweetened faintly with mint. Gods, it tasted like relief. Rhysand's fingers brushed my jaw, knuckles tracing where sweat rolled down my neck.
"You fight like a storm," he murmured.
"I fight like a man with too much on his mind," I said, wiping my mouth.
Rhysand smiled, slow and knowing. "Same thing."
He leaned in and pressed a kiss to my cheekbone, lingering there for a breath longer than necessary. His closeness cooled me more than the water had. I touched his waist, grounding myself.
Even after all this time, it still startled me sometimes—how much I needed him, how much I'd built this kingdom with him beside me.
We stood like that, just breathing, our foreheads nearly touching. But peace never lasted long in a place like this.
"My Kings," a voice called, sharp with urgency.
We turned.
A guard had entered the courtyard, armored in blackened bronze and obsidian. He bowed low. "Forgive the interruption. There is a messenger. From Elaria."
I blinked. Elaria?
"From the quiet kingdom?" Rhysand asked beside me, brow arching.
"Yes, Your Majesties," the guard confirmed. "He bears a sealed message… wrapped in silk and gold. And he's…" The man hesitated, lowering his voice. "He's terrified."
That intrigued me more than the message.
"Let him in," I said.
The doors opened moments later, and in stepped a thin, young man in royal blue livery, clutching a scroll wrapped in gilded cloth. His hands trembled around it. His skin was pale with fear. Eyes wide. He bowed—deep, trembling, not even daring to rise until I gave him leave.
"Speak," I said.
"Y-Your Majesties," the boy stammered, voice cracking. "Forgive the intrusion upon your… your grace and sovereignty. I come from Elaria. Sent by King Alaric himself" He swallowed. "I—I bring an invitation."
He stepped forward, clutching the scroll like a holy relic.
"For what?" Rhysand asked gently. Too gently.
The boy's hands shook harder.
"The birthday of Princess Aveline Ravelynn of House Elaria," he said in a rush, as if afraid the words might burn his tongue. "All reigning monarchs, crown princes, heirs, and lords are invited to a celebration lasting seven nights. There will be festivities, feasts, and—"
"And proposals," I finished for him, frowning.
The messenger flinched.
"She is of age?" Rhysand asked, his voice unreadable.
"Yes, Your Majesty. The princess has turned twenty-four. Suitors from across the five… Six kingdoms will attend. Her father… King Alaric, has said he will begin selecting prospects for her marriage."
Rhysand's gaze slid to me, and I saw the spark behind his eyes. Curiosity. Calculation.
I took the scroll and unwrapped it slowly. The seal was gold wax—an elaborate crest, the same that flew on Elaria's banners. Inside, the words were handwritten with precision and formality, though I barely read them.
Elaria have reached out to us many times over the years. They invited us on multiple occasions but they knew we wouldn't attend. The only reason why they send the invite every time is to stay in peace with us.
Until now.
"She's beautiful, they say," Rhysand murmured near my shoulder. "Gentle. Beloved across the realms." He smiled slowly. Wickedly. "You're thinking of going."
"I'm thinking of answering the call," I replied, folding the scroll again. "Whatever it is. Whatever it means."
The messenger was still trembling. I looked at him.
"Return to your king," I said. "Tell him Dravareth accepts the invitation. Two kings will attend."
His eyes widened. "Both of you?"
"Yes," Rhysand said softly, sliding his arm around my waist. "We never leave the other behind."
The messenger bowed again, stumbled, and nearly ran from the courtyard.
When he was gone, I looked at my husband.
Rhysand's gaze burned like the sun. "You feel it, don't you?"
I nodded. "Something is shifting."
And though I didn't say it aloud, I felt the echo of my own words days before:
I feel cold.
Not from the wind. Not from fear.
From fate itself, stirring.
Rhysand stepped close, fingers grazing mine. "Then let's go meet the storm."