Prince Darin of the Southern Isles

The grand ballroom of the Northern Kingdom shimmered under the glow of a thousand candles, their flickering light catching on the fresh garlands of moonblossoms and frost-lilies that draped every archway and pillar—Princess Thena’s latest whim, demanded just hours before the event. The scent of petals and beeswax mingled with the musk of perfumed nobles and the metallic tang of polished armor as Darin stood at his post, his ebony-plated form a shadow among the glittering throng.

His amber eyes, sharp beneath the slit of his helmet, tracked Thena’s movements as she flitted from suitor to suitor, her laughter like the chime of a bell—empty, practiced. Gods, she’s insufferable, he mused, watching her bat her lashes at some lordling whose name she’d doubtless forget by dawn. The way she toyed with the stem of her goblet, the way her silk gown clung to curves she’d done nothing to earn—it all curdled in his gut. A month of enduring her simpering and slights, of biting his tongue as she mocked servants for sport, and still he’d found no redeeming quality beneath the gilded veneer.

A heavy clap on his pauldron nearly made him jerk. “Still playing statue, Ser Knight?” Captain Marcus’s graveled voice was thick with ale and amusement, his own armor—less ornate, more battle-worn—gleaming dully in the light. The older man leaned in, his breath hot with spiced wine. “Or are you finally gonna peel off that tin suit and tell her what a prickly little rose she is?” Darin’s jaw tightened beneath his helm. Marcus was the only one who knew his true identity, the only one who’d seen the scars that twisted down his left side like the roots of a burned tree. The captain’s grin widened at his silence. “Ah, right. Duty before dignity. Forgot who I was talking to.”

Darin exhaled through his nose, his gaze drifting back to Thena as she dismissed a blushing duke with a flick of her wrist. “She’s not fit to rule a chicken coop, let alone a kingdom,” he muttered, the words barely audible beneath the din of lutes and laughter. Marcus snorted, swiping a tart from a passing tray. “And yet here you are, judging the merchandise like some penny-pinching fishwife.” He took a savage bite, crumbs dusting his graying beard. “Face it, princeling. Your father’s not giving you those islands unless you bed and wed. So either swallow your pride or start practicing your pretty lies for the wedding night.”

The music swelled, a waltz now, and Darin’s fingers twitched at his sides. He could almost feel the ghost of flames licking up his ribs, the memory of Nero’s laughter as the castle burned. Nero would no doubt do the same to the whole of Illyria the second he gained any power at all. Marry her and secure your future. Thena’s shrill giggle cut through the room as she stumbled into some lord’s arms, her goblet sloshing wine onto the marble. Darin’s stomach turned. Duty had carried him through worse. But this? This might break him.

Just fucking do it...

The movement of the crowd forced Darin forward, his armored frame cutting through the sea of velvet and silk like a ship through shallow waters. His focus remained locked on Thena, who had just retreated to a quieter corner—perhaps finally tired of her own theatrics. But before he could take another step, someone collided with him—hard. The impact sent a sharp jolt through his shoulder, and he barely caught himself from stumbling.

His gaze snapped down, and beneath the slit of his helmet, amber eyes narrowed at the woman before him. "Watch your step," he growled, voice low and graveled with irritation—though the moment the words left him, regret prickled at his neck. Too harsh. He wasn't here to make enemies.

He straightened, towering over the unfortunate soul he'd crashed into. His gauntleted hand flexed at his side, half-raised in case she needed steadying. "You—" His voice softened, just slightly. "Are you hurt?"

The grand ballroom of the Northern Kingdom shimmered under the glow of a thousand candles, their flickering light catching on the fresh garlands of moonblossoms and frost-lilies that draped every archway and pillar—Princess Thena’s latest whim, demanded just hours before the event. The scent of petals and beeswax mingled with the musk of perfumed nobles and the metallic tang of polished armor as Darin stood at his post, his ebony-plated form a shadow among the glittering throng.

His amber eyes, sharp beneath the slit of his helmet, tracked Thena’s movements as she flitted from suitor to suitor, her laughter like the chime of a bell—empty, practiced. Gods, she’s insufferable, he mused, watching her bat her lashes at some lordling whose name she’d doubtless forget by dawn. The way she toyed with the stem of her goblet, the way her silk gown clung to curves she’d done nothing to earn—it all curdled in his gut. A month of enduring her simpering and slights, of biting his tongue as she mocked servants for sport, and still he’d found no redeeming quality beneath the gilded veneer.

A heavy clap on his pauldron nearly made him jerk. “Still playing statue, Ser Knight?” Captain Marcus’s graveled voice was thick with ale and amusement, his own armor—less ornate, more battle-worn—gleaming dully in the light. The older man leaned in, his breath hot with spiced wine. “Or are you finally gonna peel off that tin suit and tell her what a prickly little rose she is?” Darin’s jaw tightened beneath his helm. Marcus was the only one who knew his true identity, the only one who’d seen the scars that twisted down his left side like the roots of a burned tree. The captain’s grin widened at his silence. “Ah, right. Duty before dignity. Forgot who I was talking to.”

Darin exhaled through his nose, his gaze drifting back to Thena as she dismissed a blushing duke with a flick of her wrist. “She’s not fit to rule a chicken coop, let alone a kingdom,” he muttered, the words barely audible beneath the din of lutes and laughter. Marcus snorted, swiping a tart from a passing tray. “And yet here you are, judging the merchandise like some penny-pinching fishwife.” He took a savage bite, crumbs dusting his graying beard. “Face it, princeling. Your father’s not giving you those islands unless you bed and wed. So either swallow your pride or start practicing your pretty lies for the wedding night.”

The music swelled, a waltz now, and Darin’s fingers twitched at his sides. He could almost feel the ghost of flames licking up his ribs, the memory of Nero’s laughter as the castle burned. Nero would no doubt do the same to the whole of Illyria the second he gained any power at all. Marry her and secure your future. Thena’s shrill giggle cut through the room as she stumbled into some lord’s arms, her goblet sloshing wine onto the marble. Darin’s stomach turned. Duty had carried him through worse. But this? This might break him.

Just fucking do it...

The movement of the crowd forced Darin forward, his armored frame cutting through the sea of velvet and silk like a ship through shallow waters. His focus remained locked on Thena, who had just retreated to a quieter corner—perhaps finally tired of her own theatrics. But before he could take another step, someone collided with him—hard. The impact sent a sharp jolt through his shoulder, and he barely caught himself from stumbling.

His gaze snapped down, and beneath the slit of his helmet, amber eyes narrowed at the figure before him. "Watch your step," he growled, voice low and rough with irritation—though the moment the words left him, regret prickled at his neck. Too harsh. He wasn't here to make enemies.

He straightened, towering over the unfortunate soul he'd crashed into. His gauntleted hand flexed at his side, half-raised in case they needed steadying. "You—" His voice softened, just slightly. "Are you hurt?"

The grand ballroom of the Northern Kingdom shimmered under the glow of a thousand candles, their flickering light catching on the fresh garlands of moonblossoms and frost-lilies that draped every archway and pillar—Princess Thena’s latest whim, demanded just hours before the event. The scent of petals and beeswax mingled with the musk of perfumed nobles and the metallic tang of polished armor as Darin stood at his post, his ebony-plated form a shadow among the glittering throng.

His amber eyes, sharp beneath the slit of his helmet, tracked Thena’s movements as she flitted from suitor to suitor, her laughter like the chime of a bell—empty, practiced. Gods, she’s insufferable, he mused, watching her bat her lashes at some lordling whose name she’d doubtless forget by dawn. The way she toyed with the stem of her goblet, the way her silk gown clung to curves she’d done nothing to earn—it all curdled in his gut. A month of enduring her simpering and slights, of biting his tongue as she mocked servants for sport, and still he’d found no redeeming quality beneath the gilded veneer.

A heavy clap on his pauldron nearly made him jerk. “Still playing statue, Ser Knight?” Captain Marcus’s graveled voice was thick with ale and amusement, his own armor—less ornate, more battle-worn—gleaming dully in the light. The older man leaned in, his breath hot with spiced wine. “Or are you finally gonna peel off that tin suit and tell her what a prickly little rose she is?” Darin’s jaw tightened beneath his helm. Marcus was the only one who knew his true identity, the only one who’d seen the scars that twisted down his left side like the roots of a burned tree. The captain’s grin widened at his silence. “Ah, right. Duty before dignity. Forgot who I was talking to.”

Darin exhaled through his nose, his gaze drifting back to Thena as she dismissed a blushing duke with a flick of her wrist. “She’s not fit to rule a chicken coop, let alone a kingdom,” he muttered, the words barely audible beneath the din of lutes and laughter. Marcus snorted, swiping a tart from a passing tray. “And yet here you are, judging the merchandise like some penny-pinching fishwife.” He took a savage bite, crumbs dusting his graying beard. “Face it, princeling. Your father’s not giving you those islands unless you bed and wed. So either swallow your pride or start practicing your pretty lies for the wedding night.”

The music swelled, a waltz now, and Darin’s fingers twitched at his sides. He could almost feel the ghost of flames licking up his ribs, the memory of Nero’s laughter as the castle burned. Nero would no doubt do the same to the whole of Illyria the second he gained any power at all. Marry her and secure your future. Thena’s shrill giggle cut through the room as she stumbled into some lord’s arms, her goblet sloshing wine onto the marble. Darin’s stomach turned. Duty had carried him through worse. But this? This might break him.

Just fucking do it...

The movement of the crowd forced Darin forward, his armored frame cutting through the sea of velvet and silk like a ship through shallow waters. His focus remained locked on Thena, who had just retreated to a quieter corner—perhaps finally tired of her own theatrics. But before he could take another step, someone collided with him—hard. The impact sent a sharp jolt through his shoulder, and he barely caught himself from stumbling.

His gaze snapped down, and beneath the slit of his helmet, amber eyes narrowed at the man before him. "Watch your step," he growled, voice low and graveled with irritation—though the moment the words left him, regret prickled at his neck. Too harsh. He wasn't here to make enemies.

He straightened, towering over the unfortunate soul he'd crashed into. His gauntleted hand flexed at his side, half-raised in case he needed steadying. "You—" His voice softened, just slightly. "Are you hurt?"