The grand hall of Vareldryn shimmered beneath chandeliers of carved crystal, their pale light reflecting off silver goblets and polished armor. Nobles filled the chamber—voices layered in polite laughter, measured praise, and carefully chosen words. It was a celebration in appearance alone.At the center of it stood Prince Azikhial Mevduth.

Composed. Still. Unreadable.

One by one, nobles approached him—offering congratulations, loyalty, admiration. He accepted each with a slight nod, a quiet word, the faintest curve of politeness on his lips. A perfect mask.

Inside, he was burning.

Every cheer grated against him. Every mention of “union” felt like chains tightening around his chest. His fingers twitched once at his side before stilling again. He wanted to leave. No—he wanted to disappear. Away from the hall, away from the weight, away from all of this.

To somewhere quiet.To someone familiar.His sister.

“Your Highness.”

Azikhial’s gaze lowered slightly to meet the speaker—an aged nobleman, Lord Therem Valcyr, his back bent with time but his eyes still sharp with understanding.

“A union such as this,” the old man said, voice slow and deliberate, “is not always forged from desire. But strength… is not measured by what we choose. It is measured by what we endure.”

Azikhial gave a faint, hollow exhale through his nose. “Then Vareldryn must be overflowing with strength.”

The old noble studied him for a moment longer than most dared. “Or with silence,” he replied quietly.

A pause.For a fraction of a second, the mask nearly slipped.But Azikhial recovered, nodding once. “Enjoy the evening, Lord Valcyr.”

“And you as well, Your Highness,” the old man said, though it sounded more like a wish than an expectation.

Before another voice could reach him, a heavier presence approached.

“Azikhial.”

He turned. King Vaelthar Mevduth stood beside him, regal and immovable as the mountains themselves. There was no warmth in his expression—only expectation.

“You have fulfilled your duty tonight,” the King said. “Do not fail the rest of it.”

Azikhial’s jaw tightened slightly.

“Your spouse has been waiting,” his father continued. “Do not keep her so.”

For a brief moment, irritation flickered in Azikhial’s eyes—sharp, restrained, dangerous. But it vanished just as quickly.

“…Understood,Father.”

He didn’t wait for dismissal. He simply turned and walked.Each step out of the hall felt heavier than the last.The noise faded behind him, replaced by the quiet, echoing corridors of stone and torchlight. His pace slowed as the distance grew—his control thinning with every step.

And then, without warning—

*Her. ***Vanisa.**The memory came uninvited.Sunlight instead of cold. Laughter instead of silence. The way her voice used to soften when she spoke his name. The way she looked at him—not as a prince, not as a duty… but as him.

His chest tightened.Then came the other memory.The letter.The news.Her agreement.Marriage—to another prince.No fight. No defiance. No word to him.His steps faltered.

“…Why?” he muttered under his breath.Did she choose it?Or was she forced?He didn’t know.And that uncertainty cut deeper than truth ever could.His hands clenched.

“…You could have said something.”

Silence answered him.The corridor ended.His chamber doors stood before him—tall, carved, final.For a moment, he just stood there.Then he pushed them open.

Warm light spilled across the room. The scent of incense lingered faintly in the air. The bed—large, draped, ceremonial—stood at the center like an expectation he refused to acknowledge.

And there—At the edge of it—A figure.Still. Composed. Waiting.

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Dressed for a night that meant everything… and nothing.Her posture was careful, almost too careful. Her gaze unfocused—not meeting his, not tracking him. Blind.

Azikhial stared.Then, suddenly—A quiet, bitter chuckle escaped him.

Not at her.At himself.At the absurdity of it all.He stepped forward, boots echoing softly against the floor.

She shifted slightly, sensing his presence, preparing to rise—perhaps to greet him properly.

“Don’t.”

His voice cut through the room, low and sharp.She stilled.Azikhial’s expression hardened, the last remnants of restraint giving way to something colder.

“Don’t pretend this is something it’s not.”

He moved a little closer, stopping just short of her.

“This isn’t a union. It’s a transaction.”

His eyes lingered on her for a moment—taking in the careful stillness, the quiet effort.And instead of softening—He turned away.

“I don’t want your greetings,” he said flatly. “And I don’t need your presence.”

A pause.Then, quieter—but sharper.

“So sit there. Stay quiet. And don’t expect anything from me.”

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