"Are you seriously going to sell me like a bloody pig?"

  Viperyan's voice thundered through the chamber, fury ricocheting off the stone walls.

  "Mind your tongue, Viperyan Thorne!" Gregoria's eyes flashed. "You are a princess of one of the three kingdoms. That leaves us precious few choices."

  "Why are you so afraid of war?" Viperyan shot back, her hands clenched at her sides. "What purpose does the Order of the Resurrected serve, then?" She almost dared to voice her grandmother's own marriage to a Republican diplomat.

  "Surely not to save spoiled princesses from duty!" Gregoria snapped. Viperyan watched as she pressed a hand to her stomach, taking a deep breath before continuing. "I'll never place you upon a chessboard like a pawn. I am giving you a choice. You may refuse — but every choice bears its consequence."

  Viperyan shook her head. "I never thought this would come from you."

  "Neither did I." Gregoria's voice trembled. "Yet when the other option is war… War bears no glory, child."

  Viperyan folded her arms against her chest, looking down, thinking what choice she truly had.

  "Ponkan…" Gregoria's gaze softened as she used her nickname. "I dreamed — foolishly, perhaps — of you finding true love. Of a wedding beneath the tangerineries with the one who makes your heart race."

  A faint smile touched the queen's lips before they locked eyes.

  Viperyan almost let the name slip through her lips — almost. Even guessing that Dhalia would love the idea of marrying a prince, she couldn't sacrifice her cousin to the pyre.

  A strange stillness ran through her veins when Viperyan realised her fate had reserved a castle of marble filled with treacherous maids, husband’s secrets and children who'd never choose their own futures. No royal truly did.

  All her training. All the diplomatic lectures from her queen.

  All in vain.

  Destiny held no adventure for her.

  "Birthright is the arbiter of destiny, Viperyan," Gregoria said as she looked ahead to the pine trees from her window. "The higher one's born, the higher the price to pay. Why do you think peasants don't write history?"

  Harsh words. True words.

  Viperyan felt hands crawling up her ankles, dragging her into a web of power, fully aware that the only coin she had to offer was what she longed for: her freedom.

  No drop of blood was spilled without the blessing of those entangled by the most expensive silks, who considered themselves the architects of the world.

  "How," she whispered, "how am I supposed to survive in their nest?"

  Gregoria's gaze shifted as Cyrillus, her mythical companion, landed on the windowsill. When she spoke again, Viperyan heard the warrior, not the queen.

  "Yes. They despise us, yet they need us. Their coffers are empty." She leaned her palms on the wooden table. "Mark my words. If any harm befalls you, I shall wipe their existence into oblivion. No one will ever remember them, as if they had never existed."

  "I wasn't raised to be a wife!" Viperyan's protest came from her lower abdomen. She would marry a stranger, a stranger who thought of her as unholy.

  "By the Goddess, stop!" Her palm struck the desk, the candles trembling at the blow. "Girls are wed as soon as blood marks them, and you have bled for years now. You are royal, not some pampered hound."

  Viperyan said nothing.

  "Leave us," the queen commanded the two men in the chamber.

  They obeyed at once.

  When the door closed, Gregoria's voice sharpened.

  "I raised you to speak as a man. To be comfortable as a man. To be confident as a man. To fight as a man. But above all, I raised you to think as a man." Her fist struck the desk again. "How you feel about the world shapes how you survive it. Never forget that."

  Viperyan bit the interior of her cheeks as her grandmother slowly softened her tone.

  "If my brothers had lived, I would never have worn a crown. If my uncles had sired sons before I claimed it, I would never have worn a crown. If I had borne a boy, your mother would never have had to give up her claim — because she would never have been in the line of succession."

  The breeze carried her words away before Viperyan could answer.

  Viperyan could be naive, idealistic, and stubborn — but she wasn't stupid. She understood quickly that she had been raised to survive, no matter what unfolded.

  For the first time, she saw past the silks and safety, past the privileges she had taken for granted, and recognised they had never been truly safe.

  "So," Viperyan said, struggling to form the words. "Women don't wish, women don't desire, and women don't dream."

  Gregoria's jaw tightened. "Yes. In Easeror, women marry."

  Viperyan swallowed.

  She had not paid the right heed to the knightness around her. No nobleborn ladies had ever become a Skull willingly. Joining the Resurrected meant choosing survival over a broken heart, a lord's rejection, or any other path they were offered.

  "What purpose shall I have if I'll be shipped away?" She asked more to herself, steadying her breath so Gregoria wouldn't see.

  "You underestimate the power of a woman who is seen." Gregoria pressed her index finger gently to Viperyan's forehead. "A man listens only to his equal. And you —" she smiled, truly smiled, "— you are clever, utterly gorgeous, and dangerous in ways no man expects a woman to be."

  Viperyan already knew her answer. It didn't relieve the weight over her chest.

  She would marry him. But she would never walk into her future blind.

  "I'll marry the Crown Prince, then?"

  Her mind raced. As a magical, she would likely outlast him by a century and a half — time enough to experience the sort of love that filled countless tales.

  "Indeed," Gregoria replied, a touch impatient. "They asked your hand for the exiled twin."

  She had heard the whispers. Everyone had. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

  "For once, perhaps fortune will favour you," Gregoria smirked. "If you wed the second twin, I can insist you both return to Inverdon."

  Hope stirred — a treacherous feeling. Wedded, yes. But home.

  "That is better than being given to the bastard heir," Viperyan muttered before she could stop herself.

  "By the Goddess, Viperyan," Gregoria snapped, rolling her eyes. "Do not speak so carelessly. He is the rightful heir."

  "Then why cast him aside as they did?" Viperyan countered. "If they're capable of doing it to their own blood, what will they do to one of us?"

  "After their triplet…" Gregoria began, but her voice faltered. "He was a child. A child sent to fight on the edge of the known world."

  "Banished," Viperyan corrected, too boldly.

  Gregoria pressed her knuckles to the table. "You're impossible today! Perhaps they meant to protect him."

  Viperyan gave a humourless breath. "For sure that is what they wish us to believe."

  "By the Lady — enough." The queen raised her voice, summoning her advisors back.

  "Shall I meet him only on the day?" Viperyan inquired.

  "Worry not, my dear. The Northerners only just sent the letter requesting your hand. We shall delve into the details once I draft our acceptance."

  Viperyan tilted her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Does he match my fairness?"

  The girl rested her hand against the hilt of one of her daggers. Viperyan Thorne was known for many things, but a lack of self-assurance was not among them.

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  "By the Goddess!" Gregoria rolled her eyes. "They say the twins are unmatched in beauty. One with hair pale as sugar-glaze, the other inherited his father's dark locks. Oiregor swore it so, though he could never remember which was which."

  Viperyan huffed. "I suppose I shall drink myself senseless until I feel amused about this." Then, with a crooked grin, "Let us hope he still has all his teeth. Warriors tend to lose them."

  Laughter rippled through the chamber.

  As Viperyan prepared to leave, she bid farewell to Cherstin and Auror, her grandmother's trusted confidants.

  She was halfway to the door when her legs stopped moving as a wave of ice and heat flooded her system.

  "I'll have to give up the knighthood, won't I?" She asked, never looking back.

  "Their customs differ vastly from ours." Gregoria's voice softened with grandmotherly tenderness. "But perhaps he'll find the company of a strong-minded, battle-skilled woman more interesting than a knitting lady."

  Viperyan absorbed the words, wondering, for the first time, if that might be true.

  She crossed the stone threshold. The doors closed behind her.

  The air outside the queen's chamber felt colder. The scent of pine drifted up from the valley below, sharp and clean.

  The Southern Princess leaned against the doorframe and drew a deep breath, filling her lungs with crisp air she hadn't realised she'd lost.

  Viperyan's eyes caught his form immediately.

  She assumed the golden boy had just finished one of his spell exercises and had come searching for her, as he often did. Rezal stood before the tower doors like a distracted sentinel — hands clasped behind his back, jaw set — until their violet eyes met.

  He flashed that unfairly beautiful smile as he walked towards her. He moved his lips to ask what had happened, but her voice reached him first.

  "I'm to be wed."

  Viperyan felt like she had just thrown up.

  Rezal stopped before fully reaching her. His ebony skin became as pale as hers. His masseter bulged as his shoulders rose to his ears. But the smile — the smile vanished into a thin, hard line.

  "You can't," he stopped before clearing his throat. "You can't marry one of them."

  "I never said who." She said, as her brows met.

  His mouth opened, closed again. Whatever he meant to say tangled on his tongue.

  "Viperyan," he said finally, scratching the side of his neck. "You're royalty, and there's precious few of those left."

  She knew that. Easeror had three kingdoms in name, but only two kept crowns. The third — the Republic — had togas and a senate. Gregoria's marriage to one of them stood as a notable exception.

  "What is your grandmother thinking?" Rezal's voice dropped. "They despise us."

  "Mind your tongue, golden boy," she murmured, trying to soften the moment. "She's your queen."

  It didn't work.

  He never replied.

  They had been inseparable since the day he arrived in Inverdon at eight years old, she barely four. Their bond transcended what others called friendship — they regarded themselves as family.

  "I know they despise us," she added gently, though she should have been the one comforted. "Sometimes it's wiser to keep enemies close. For the sake of our people… this may yet serve a purpose."

  When he finally spoke, he asked the question that would linger on everyone's mind.

  "Which one?"

  "The bastard heir."

  The words hung between them like smoke that wouldn’t fade.

  Whispers had long followed the northern court — of their queen's hatred for magical blood, of their king's scheme to seize the throne, of the prince being blamed for his brother's demise.

  They walked on. Silence filled the space where words should be. The black stone of Inverdon seemed colder against her feet. Torchlight flickered against the walls, casting their shadows long and thin even in the morrow. An ancient castle, raised by the Thornes after the Age of Chains. Far from the soft view of the Marbl, but its towers held a comfortable rawness. A central spire clawed at the sky, surrounded by four squat bastions, and lesser keeps clung to the mountain's ribs.

  Gregoria's chambers crowned the highest point, overlooking the village below, the forest, the river. The royals' and nobility's rooms lay nearby, both facing the sacred Temple of Yewsia — the heart of their realm.

  "I need to tell your broth—" Viperyan began as they rounded a corner.

  "Tell me what?"

  Odraud's voice cut in breathless as he came from the corridor ahead, his boots striking the stone too loudly.

  "She's getting married."

  Rezal's words came out hard, denying Viperyan the chance to speak for herself.

  "What?" Odraud snapped. Not shock — anger. "When? Which bastard?"

  "The Crown—"

  "Aurpius Scaster," Viperyan cut in before Rezal could finish. "We were looking for you, actually."

  Odraud and Rezal had been born scarcely a year apart, both under the same summer sky. Their resemblance was striking enough for strangers to know they were brothers. Both bore the deep skin of the southern Rellum bloodline and the same violet eyes as hers.

  Where Rezal wore his hair in careful braids, Odraud kept his head shaved.

  Both were short. Where Rezal was muscled and lean, Odraud was built like a battering ram. His shoulders made him appear taller, though his features lacked Rezal's storybook delicacy.

  For all their resemblance, they couldn't be more different. Rezal moved like water. Odraud moved like stone.

  Rezal weighed his words; Odraud hurled them. He and Viperyan shared that much — an instinct to meet truth head-on, regardless of how ugly it might be. Many joked they could be siblings for the way they took after one another.

  "And how are you feeling?" Odraud asked, stepping closer with raw concern.

  His question felt like a punch. Only then did she realise that Rezal had never asked how she felt.

  "She's not going to be handed to the eagles alone," he continued before she could answer. "Your grandmother for sure has a plan. Come on, Rez — this cannot stand."

  Unlike Nod, Rezal had never been protective over her. She watched him in silence, imagining he was thinking how his brother's temper ran ahead of sense.

  Viperyan exhaled a small, humourless laugh. "Well. At least your brother seems as offended as you are, even acting as if I'm precious to him."

  "Vi," Rezal muttered, rolling his eyes. "You should have forsaken theatre. The realm is losing a master of dramatics."

  "I know you care, Rez." She smiled at him, softer now, and looped an arm through his. He allowed it, resting his arm over her shoulders as they walked. "I love you too."

  "Perhaps," she teased, "we could find some trouble before I leave. You could ask Grandmother for a task. Take me along."

  "Wait — what?" Rezal stopped short.

  "What?" Viperyan turned, arms folded. "Do you doubt my ability to handle an assignment?"

  "It's not that," Rezal said quickly. Too quickly. "You've only just completed the final trial of the Order. You're still—"

  "Oh no," Odraud muttered under his breath.

  She stiffened. "Still what? Unfit? Unready?"

  "That's not what I meant—"

  "You just said it." Her voice sharpened. "Out loud."

  "For the love of the Ancients, Viperyan! You're capa—" He huffed, hands curled at his sides. "You just said I don't care, and now I'm heartless for wanting you alive?"

  She stared at him, that familiar knot tightening beneath her ribs — the one that had begun to appear whenever things tilted into something she didn't know how to name.

  "So you care more about being seen as heartless than about me," she said. Flat. Controlled.

  Odraud cleared his throat, backing away. "That's my cue. Just… don't be late."

  Viperyan knew him well enough to recognise the truth in it. Rezal cared deeply for how the world perceived him — the golden boy, the disciplined mage and fighter, destined for greatness. And though he cared for her, she had never been certain he cared the same way she did.

  "By the Goddess, woman." Rezal rarely raised his tone, but now it cracked. "Yes, I care how I'm seen. You know that. But I care about you plenty more than I should. More than I ever admit." He exhaled sharply. "Your skill perhaps surpasses mine."

  "Then what is it? My magic?"

  She knew she had issues with her magic, but the question hurt more than she wanted to admit — and it had nothing to do with her issues.

  "Forget it. You always do what you want anyway." He rolled his eyes.

  "Me?" Her laugh was bitter. "Should I remind you how many times you left me waiting for hours and never showed? Do friends do that to each other?"

  "I never promised you I'd come," Rezal said, still avoiding her eyes.

  "You can't even look at me," she replied quietly, as he guided her aside so others could pass. "You know I've waited for hours each time."

  His tone sharpened. "Must everything become a trial with you? Should I kneel and beg Her Highness's forgiveness?"

  His sarcasm made her blood burn.

  "Soon I won't be here for you to ask me to hunt, train, or eat something and then never show. I always dreamed of having adventures with you and Nod. Why can't you help me with the only thing I—" She stopped herself, looked down, and gambled on the whispers she'd heard about them. "Is this really about safety — or is it because I'm betrothed?"

  She heard his breath quickening before he grasped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

  His eyes were tinged with blue today — beautiful but melancholic.

  "I just never imagined life would be like this for us, Vi." His voice dropped. "You may visit Inverdon on the exact day I leave on the queen's orders. This mismatch? Too cruel."

  Viperyan swallowed. She knew that if the northern crown didn't accept her grandmother's wish to change the groom, she'd likely live fifteen days away from Inverdon, on a fast horse.

  She blinked, unsettled. It wasn't what she expected to hear. Far from comfort. Though it was more than what he'd offered her in the past two years.

  The whole thing felt like madness — a friendship that bruised more than it healed.

  "I'm not there yet. Today, we're here." Her voice fell.

  What she didn't say was that if he asked — if he truly asked — she believed Gregoria might reconsider the betrothal. The whispers already carried their names entangled, as if fate had written them in the same breath. The princess and the golden boy, a tale to feed the younglings for centuries.

  But the words lodged in her throat. He probably had no idea he could ask for her hand. He probably wouldn't bind his destiny to hers just to stop a friend from getting married.

  A faint smile tugged at the corner of Rezal's mouth before she realised his hand still lingered against her skin.

  She pulled away, startled, as if burned, as if he could read her thoughts. Well, he could if he chose to.

  He snatched his hand back, almost guilty.

  For a heartbeat, they just stared at one another, the silence between them louder than any scream — a wound neither could name.

  "Let's focus on mindfulness," he finally said, pulling her towards the training yards.

  She was sure she despised meditation as much as Northerners despised magicals. An art she had not mastered yet.

  As she walked beside him, she felt like she had been drained. Her legs carried her forward, but her chest hollowed out.

  Once more, his lack of courage led him to silence and inaction.

  The complete opposite of her.

  Viperyan ran ahead. She didn't want to be late. They always were.

  As she descended the tangerinerie, she understood no one was coming to save her. On the contrary, she had been trained to do that for herself. Gregoria's lesson proved valuable.

  She glanced back. He followed—always waiting for some kind of reassurance.

  She promised herself that if not with him, she would learn to go to war without him.