War had arrived like a storm cloud with a royal seal.
Westerholt's ships lined the horizon.
Their soldiers spilled onto the shores of Alveria like ants with swords and entitlement.
But Elara? She didn't flinch.
She kissed Arian in front of the entire war council, drew her sword, and said: "Let's go ruin some egos."
Where Was the King?
King Alric of Alveria—father to Elara, husband to Seraphina, lover of drama—hadn't been seen in months.
Rumors whispered:
He was ill.
He was dead.
He was on a spiritual goat-herding retreat.
In truth?
He was hiding in a mountain fortress eating jam and composing angry letters to nobles who bored him.
Until now.
He arrived at the royal palace in a velvet cloak, seven rings, and a crown so heavy it could kill a man if dropped from above.
"Hello, darlings," he drawled, sweeping into the war room like a sassy ghost. "What's this? War? And no one invited me?"
Elara nearly choked on her goblet.
"Father?!"
"Someone threatened my kingdom," he said, pouring wine. "How rude."
The Queen's Reaction
Seraphina looked up from her map with a sigh. "I told you he was alive."
"I thought you were bluffing."
"I'm always bluffing."
Preparing for War
Elara donned armor—custom, gold-lined, tailored with enough cinch to still look hot in wartime.
Arian went shirtless (because obviously), swords strapped across his back like a romantic outlaw.
Lina wore a stolen general's coat, an absurd feathered hat, and wielded a whip she found in someone's closet. "For intimidation," she said.
And then there was the King, sitting on a crate in the supply tent, offering military advice and spooning jam out of a jar.
"If you flank them from the east," he said casually, "they'll fold like bad nobility under tax reform."
"Are you drunk?" Elara asked.
"No," he said. "But I am deliciously unbothered."
The Battlefield
Smoke rose over the valley.
Westerholt soldiers clashed with Alverian guards in brutal, messy chaos. Swords rang. Arrows flew. Warhorses screamed.
Elara rode with fire in her eyes and Arian beside her, deflecting blows with deadly grace.
But then—Cassian.
He appeared like a vengeful ghost in gleaming black armor, scarred, sneering, and hungry for a crown.
He raised his sword at Arian. "You stole my bride."
Arian dropped his cloak. "You never deserved her."
And then—they fought.
The Sword Duel (Also Known as the Shirtless Showdown)
Steel clashed.
Muscles flexed.
Women in the distance gasped.
Cassian fought with cold precision.
Arian fought like a man in love—with fire, fury, and a dash of recklessness.
Each swing was poetry.
Each dodge, a heartbeat skipped.
Cassian grunted, "She'll never be yours."
Arian smirked. "She already is."
And then—slash.
Cassian fell, sword flying from his hands.
Arian stood over him, blade to his throat.
But he didn't kill him.
He looked up, blood-slick and glorious, at Elara.
And she nodded.
Elara's Final Move
Elara dismounted, stepped over fallen swords, and stood above Cassian like a queen born of war.
"You lost your chance," she said. "Not because you're weak, but because you're cruel."
Cassian spat blood. "You think this is over?"
She leaned in. "No. I think it's just beginning."
She turned to the crowd.
"I am Elara of Alveria. Daughter of the Lion Queen. Fiancée to a man of no title. And I choose my kingdom—my people—my love."
The crowd erupted.
A roar of loyalty. Of rebellion. Of a new era.
Aftermath
The Westerholt army retreated.
Cassian was taken prisoner (and later demoted to "Duke of Nothing" by the King, who was in an excellent mood).
The Queen ordered a three-day celebration and finally let Lina install her ballroom disco chandelier.
Elara returned to the palace bruised, bloodied, and victorious.
Arian kissed her in front of everyone.
And Lina? She got promoted to Head of Espionage & Excellent Fashion.
That Night
Elara lay with Arian in her bedchamber, stripped of armor but glowing with triumph.
"You didn't kill him," she whispered.
"I didn't need to," Arian murmured, lips brushing her shoulder. "You finished him without lifting a sword."
She rolled into his arms, kissed him until the candles dimmed, and whispered, "So what now?"
"Now?" he smirked.
He kissed her collarbone.
"Now we make peace…"
Kiss.
"…with passion."
Kiss.
"…and possibly against this wall."
Meanwhile…
In the mountains, the King poured another glass of wine.
"Ah," he sighed. "I love when they grow up and conquer their enemies."