Court was a glittering mess of gold, gossip, and veiled threats.
The reception was meant to celebrate Kieran's arrival and our impending union, but it felt more like a funeral draped in jewels. Everyone was dressed to impress. Or intimidate. Or both.
I wore a sea-glass gown with silver thread laced like vines around the bodice. My hair had been twisted into a crown of braids, each strand pinned so tightly I could feel my heartbeat behind my ears.
Kieran stood beside me like a statue carved from judgment and shadows. He said nothing, moved only when necessary, and watched *everything.*
The Caelorthian delegation stood near the pillars, as unreadable as their prince. The Veylinthian nobles mingled like snakes in lace. And me? I smiled. I curtsied. I charmed. I lied.
---
"Your Highness," said Lady Merel, a sharp-featured noblewoman with a voice sweet enough to rot teeth. "You must be *thrilled* to have such a renowned war hero at your side."
She looked at Kieran, who offered her the barest tilt of his head. No words. No smile.
"Of course," I said, voice smooth. "It's not every day one gets engaged to a man who inspires both legends and mild cardiac episodes."
She laughed too hard.
Then turned sharper. "They say he can kill with just a glance. Have you tested that yet?"
"Only in the mirror," I replied. "Still alive. Still devastating."
Kieran's lip twitched.
Merel backed off with a bow and a strained smile.
---
As the evening dragged on, I kept waiting for Kieran to say something. Anything. But he remained perfectly silent unless spoken to directly.
And even then, his words were precise, cold, unshakably composed. He answered questions like they were formal reports.
But his eyes?
His eyes never stopped moving.
They tracked every twitch of every noble, every glance cast in our direction, every smile that bared just a little too much teeth. I was beginning to understand: Kieran didn't trust this court. He was *reading* it.
And he wasn't wrong to.
I caught Lord Venric whispering behind a wine cup, Lady Aelis casting spells with her eyelashes, and even my cousin Tavian making a face like he'd smelled something unpleasant.
Me. Or him. Or both.
---
At one point, Lord Varron—a tall, smug heir to a trade house with too many ships and too little sense—cornered me near the garden doors.
"A Caelorthian prince," he drawled. "Interesting choice. Some say they eat their brides before the wedding night."
I smiled. "Only if they're undercooked."
He leaned in, far too close. "Careful, Princess. You've always had a sharp tongue. But Caelorth doesn't play games like we do."
"Neither do I," I said. "Now move. You're blocking my view."
His smirk faltered. He stepped aside with a stiff bow, but the message had been delivered: the court was watching me just as closely as they were watching him.
---
When I finally escaped to my chambers that night, I was exhausted and angry and still buzzing with too much energy. I couldn't sit. Couldn't sleep. Could barely breathe past the tension coiled in my spine.
So I wandered.
It wasn't the first time I'd roamed the palace halls in slippers and a robe. But it was the first time I wasn't alone.
Because I found him.
Kieran.
Standing alone on the moonlit balcony at the edge of the west wing, facing the gardens. Bareheaded, cloak gone, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He looked almost normal. Almost human.
Except for the way the shadows still seemed to bow around him.
He didn't turn when I approached.
"Couldn't sleep?" I asked softly.
"Didn't try."
His voice was quieter now. Still cold, but... slower. Like the frost had softened just enough to speak without shattering.
"I thought war princes needed rest, too."
"Not when peace tastes like poison."
I leaned against the railing beside him. Not too close.
"Is that what this is? Poison?"
He looked at me then. Fully. And for the first time, I saw it:
Not just calculation.
Not just control.
Pain.
Old and quiet and sharp as a blade tucked behind the ribs.
"You don't like this alliance," I said.
"I don't like court games."
"You seemed to play them just fine tonight."
"I watched you."
My breath caught.
"You wear your anger like silk. Soft. Controlled. But it's there."
"You saw all that from standing still and saying nothing?"
"You talk with your eyes."
I turned my gaze back to the garden. "And what do they say now?"
He was quiet for a long time. Then:
"That you're more dangerous than anyone in that throne room."
I wasn't sure if it was a compliment.
"You don't know me."
"Not yet."
He took a single step closer. Close enough to feel the chill roll off him again, sharp and strange and not of this world.
"But I will."
I swallowed. "What are you, Kieran?"
That stopped him.
His head tilted slightly. Not in surprise. In... amusement?
"Does it matter?"
"It should. But the real problem is, I don't think it does."
A pause.
"That may be the most dangerous thing you've said all night," he murmured.
I met his gaze. "Then we're even."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable.
It was thick. Tense. Strange.
I wanted to ask him what he feared. What he dreamed about. I wanted to demand answers and maybe... maybe touch him. Just to see if he *felt* like a man or a myth.
Instead, I said, "If you ever try to kill me, do me the courtesy of doing it yourself."
Kieran let out a breath that might've been a laugh.
"Of course. Anything less would be disrespectful."
And gods help me, that might be the closest thing he's ever said to flirting.
---
Back in my room, I didn't sleep.
I thought about shadows. About pale eyes. About
sharp things wrapped in velvet.
I thought about Kieran.
And for the first time, I wondered:
What happens when you fall for the storm instead of seeking shelter from it?