The grand halls of the Imperial Palace echoed with the soft patter of Elara's silk slippers as she paced her assigned chambers. The room was opulent, a gilded cage draped in crimson velvet and gold-trimmed tapestries depicting ancient battles—victories of Arcturus, no doubt. It was meant to impress, to overwhelm, but all it did was fuel the fire burning in her chest. She had been here for three days now, three agonizing days of forced smiles during court appearances, whispered conversations with wary attendants, and stolen moments alone where she could finally let the mask slip.
Elara stopped before the full-length mirror, her reflection staring back with eyes that had lost their usual sparkle. Her long brown hair cascaded down her back like a river of chocolate, framing a face that was both delicate and fierce. The red gown she wore—insisted upon by Cassian's courtiers—clung to her curves, a symbol of her new allegiance. She hated it. It felt like wearing the skin of an enemy.
But hate was a powerful motivator.
She had a plan. It had formed in the carriage on the way here, crystallizing with every bump in the road that brought her closer to this nightmare. Cassian was a monster, a blight on both kingdoms. His rise to power had been paved with the blood of his own family—brothers and sisters eliminated one by one in "accidents" that fooled no one. The whispers reached even Valmont: a poisoned chalice at a banquet, a hunting mishap in the royal forests, a fall from a tower window during a stormy night. And the youngest, little Princess Liora, found drowned in the palace baths at just eleven years old. The official story was suicide, but who believed that?
Elara's hands clenched into fists. Her own kingdom had suffered under the endless rivalry—raids on border villages, trade embargoes that starved the poor, young men drafted into pointless skirmishes. Peace through marriage? It was a farce. As long as Cassian sat on the throne, true peace was impossible. He was a psychopath, devoid of empathy, ruling through fear and manipulation. The people of Arcturus lived in terror, their loyalty enforced by the shadow of his blade. And now Valmont would be dragged into that darkness.
No. She wouldn't allow it.
Her goal was simple: kill the Crown Prince. End his reign before the wedding vows could bind them forever. With him gone, the throne would pass to a distant cousin—someone less ruthless, perhaps even amenable to real diplomacy. The people of both countries could breathe again, rebuild without the constant threat of war or tyranny. Valmont would hail her as a hero, even if it meant her own execution. And Arcturus? Many would secretly thank her, she was sure. Whispers in the halls already spoke of discontent, of servants who averted their eyes when his name was mentioned.
But how? She wasn't a warrior, trained in the arts of assassination. She was a princess, schooled in embroidery, diplomacy, and the subtle poisons of court intrigue. Ah, poison. That seemed fitting—turn his own methods against him. During her first dinner in the palace, she had noticed the servants tasting his food, a precaution against treachery. But what if the poison came from within his own circle? She had befriended one of her ladies-in-waiting, a young woman named Mira from the borderlands, whose family had lost everything in the wars. Mira's eyes had lit with quiet fury when Elara confided her hatred. Perhaps Mira could slip something into his wine during the upcoming betrothal feast.
Elara moved to the window, gazing out at the sprawling gardens below. Snow dusted the hedges like powdered sugar on a bitter cake. The feast was tomorrow night—a grand affair to announce their union to the nobility. It would be her chance. She imagined it: Cassian raising his goblet in a toast, his green eyes locking onto hers as he drank. The toxin working slowly, giving her time to feign shock, to play the grieving bride-to-be while chaos erupted. By dawn, he would be cold, and she would be free—or at least, her people would be.
A knock at the door shattered her reverie. "Enter," she called, composing herself.
It was Mira, slipping in with a tray of tea. The girl's face was pale, her hands trembling slightly as she set it down. "Your Highness," she whispered, glancing over her shoulder. "I... I have it. The vial. From an apothecary in the lower city. Odorless, tasteless. A drop in his cup, and..."
Elara nodded, her heart pounding. "Good. Tomorrow, during the toast. I'll distract him if needed."
Mira hesitated. "But what if we're caught? He... he sees everything."
"Then we die knowing we tried," Elara said firmly, though a chill ran down her spine. Cassian's gaze was unnerving, like he could peel back layers of skin to see the thoughts beneath.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of preparations—fittings for her gown, rehearsals for the ceremony, endless curtsies to simpering lords and ladies who eyed her with a mix of pity and calculation. By evening, exhaustion weighed on her, but sleep evaded. She lay in the massive bed, staring at the canopy, rehearsing the plan over and over.
The feast arrived like a storm cloud. The great hall was a sea of crimson and gold, chandeliers casting flickering light on tables laden with roasted meats, exotic fruits, and rivers of wine. Musicians played lively tunes, but the atmosphere was tense, as if everyone sensed the undercurrent of dread.
Elara entered on Cassian's arm, his touch light but possessive. He looked every inch the prince—tall, dark-haired, his crown gleaming under the lights. Those green eyes swept the room, and the chatter hushed momentarily.
"You look ravishing," he murmured as they took their seats at the high table.
She forced a smile. "As do you, my lord."
The meal progressed agonizingly. Speeches droned on about unity and prosperity. Elara's eyes flicked to Mira, who moved among the servers, a small vial hidden in her sleeve. The moment approached—the final toast.
Cassian rose, goblet in hand. "To the future of our kingdoms," he intoned, his voice carrying across the hall. "To peace, forged in alliance and... affection."
The word hung strangely, almost mocking. Everyone stood, raising their glasses. Mira approached from behind, her hand dipping toward his cup.
Elara's breath caught. Now.
But then Cassian turned. Not fully, just a slight shift, his eyes locking onto hers across the table. Those poisonous green depths bored into her, stripping away her resolve. It wasn't anger or suspicion in his gaze—it was something deeper, a raw intensity that made her freeze. Like he knew. Like he had always known. And worse, like he was... amused? Intrigued?
Mira faltered, her hand withdrawing. The vial remained unused. The toast concluded, glasses clinked, and the moment passed. Elara sank into her chair, defeat crashing over her like a wave. She had failed. Not because of guards or tasters, but because of that look. It unnerved her, made her question everything. How could she kill a man who looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth seeing?
The rest of the evening blurred. Dancing, forced laughter, Cassian's hand on her waist as they waltzed. His touch was gentle, almost tender, but she felt the steel beneath.
As the night wound down, he escorted her back to her chambers. At the door, he paused, lifting her hand to his lips. "Goodnight, Elara. Dream of us."
She pulled away, shutting the door with a click. Leaning against it, she slid to the floor, tears stinging her eyes. Her plan had crumbled at a single glance. What kind of power did he hold over her already?
But the story wasn't just hers. Across the palace, in the shadowed depths of his private study, Crown Prince Cassian poured himself a glass of brandy, the amber liquid swirling like trapped fire. He settled into a high-backed chair by the roaring hearth, the flames casting dancing shadows on the walls adorned with portraits of his fallen siblings.
Why had he done it? The question lingered in his mind, especially now, with Elara's hatred so palpable it was almost intoxicating. He didn't understand feelings the way others did—emotions were puzzles, distant and abstract. But power? Power he understood. It was tangible, a throne built on necessity.
His childhood had been a viper's nest. Born the third son in a line of seven children, Cassian had watched his father, King Theron, pit them against each other from infancy. "Only the strongest deserve the crown," the old man would say, his eyes cold as winter steel. Lessons in strategy turned to sabotage; alliances among siblings shattered overnight. His eldest brother, Darius, was cruel, beating the younger ones for sport. Sister Valeria schemed endlessly, poisoning relationships with lies.
Cassian learned early: trust no one. Feelings were weaknesses. When Darius "accidentally" pushed their middle brother off a cliff during a hunt, claiming a slip on loose rocks, the king merely nodded approval. "One less contender."
It set the precedent. Valeria came next, slipping hemlock into Darius's wine after he slighted her. But Cassian saw it all. He observed, calculated. By thirteen, he orchestrated his first move: framing Valeria for treason with forged letters to enemy spies. She hanged at dawn, her pleas ignored.
One by one, they fell. A rigged saddle for the next brother, a tampered bath for little Liora—who, truth be told, had discovered too much and threatened to tell. Cassian didn't enjoy it; it was survival. The throne wasn't a gift; it was a battlefield. By eliminating them, he ensured stability—no more infighting, no civil war brewing among heirs. Arcturus needed a strong ruler, not a fractured family tearing it apart.
And now, Elara. He had loved her from afar, in his twisted way. Spies brought reports of her kindness, her grace amid Valmont's courts. She was everything he wasn't—warm, empathetic, alive with emotions he could barely comprehend. Marrying her wasn't just politics; it was fascination. He wanted to understand her, to possess that light and see if it could illuminate his shadows.
But she planned to kill him. He had seen it in her eyes tonight, in the servant's hesitant approach. It didn't anger him; it thrilled him. A worthy adversary in this game of crowns.
Cassian smiled into the fire. "Is love really for me?" he whispered, echoing the doubt he sensed in her. Perhaps not. But he would claim it anyway.