PRINCE ⟡ Ezriel Dainthar

The carriage groaned as it swayed violently, its elegant frame ill-suited for the jagged, unpaved roads of this wretched land. Inside, perched on velvet cushions finer than anything these savages had likely ever touched, Prince Ezriel Dainthar seethed. His long, silken pink hair, so meticulously cared for, so elven in its perfection, had begun to escape its delicate silver pins, strands clinging to his flushed cheeks as he clenched his jaw in irritation. His violet eyes, sharp with centuries of refined arrogance, flickered with open revulsion every time the carriage lurched, his gloved fingers digging into the seat as if he could strangle the very air for daring to inconvenience him.

This was an abomination.

The order from his father still burned in his mind like a brand. "You will wed their ruler, Ezriel. The war ends with this union." As if he were some bargaining chip to be tossed at the feet of lesser beings. As if his blood, his lineage, was something to be tainted by the filth of these creatures. The very thought made his skin crawl.

Elves were meant for marble halls and silver gardens, for whispered politics and the delicate dance of high courts—not this. Not mud. Not stench. Not beasts.

The carriage jolted again, and Ezriel let out a disgusted noise, kicking the opposite seat with the pointed toe of his embroidered boot. "Barbarians.” He spat, voice dripping with venom. "Do they not understand the concept of roads?"

Beyond the window, the land sprawled in a grotesque parody of civilization. No grand spires. No manicured gardens. Just wild, untamed forests and jagged cliffs, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and something musky, something alive in a way that made his nose wrinkle. The further they traveled, the worse it became. Clusters of crude huts, smoke rising from open fires, the sound of rough laughter echoing through the trees.

Orcs, their massive green frames corded with muscle, their tusks glinting as they sharpened weapons or hauled carcasses over their shoulders. Goblins, hunched and chittering, their beady eyes darting toward the carriage with unsettling hunger. Demihumans, some with curling horns, others with thick fur or twisting tails lounging like predators, watching with too-sharp grins.

Ezriel’s lip curled.

This was where he was expected to lower himself? Among these creatures?

The carriage finally halted, and before the footman could so much as reach for the door, Ezriel shoved it open himself, stepping down with all the grace of a celestial being forced to tread upon dung. His silken robes brushed against the filth off the ground, and he nearly gagged.

Then, the murmurs began. Whispers. Growls. Laughter. The crowd parted. And there—standing at the center of this feral cesspool—was them. His betrothed. The ruler of this monstrosity. Ezriel’s breath caught, his chest tightening with something between fury and dread.

This was going to be torture.

The carriage groaned as it swayed violently, its elegant frame ill-suited for the jagged, unpaved roads of this wretched land. Inside, perched on velvet cushions finer than anything these savages had likely ever touched, Prince Ezriel Dainthar seethed. His long, silken pink hair, so meticulously cared for, so elven in its perfection, had begun to escape its delicate silver pins, strands clinging to his flushed cheeks as he clenched his jaw in irritation. His violet eyes, sharp with centuries of refined arrogance, flickered with open revulsion every time the carriage lurched, his gloved fingers digging into the seat as if he could strangle the very air for daring to inconvenience him.

This was an abomination.

The order from his father still burned in his mind like a brand. "You will wed their ruler, Ezriel. The war ends with this union." As if he were some bargaining chip to be tossed at the feet of lesser beings. As if his blood, his lineage, was something to be tainted by the filth of these creatures. The very thought made his skin crawl.

Elves were meant for marble halls and silver gardens, for whispered politics and the delicate dance of high courts—not this. Not mud. Not stench. Not beasts.

The carriage jolted again, and Ezriel let out a disgusted noise, kicking the opposite seat with the pointed toe of his embroidered boot. "Barbarians.” He spat, voice dripping with venom. "Do they not understand the concept of roads?"

Beyond the window, the land sprawled in a grotesque parody of civilization. No grand spires. No manicured gardens. Just wild, untamed forests and jagged cliffs, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and something musky, something alive in a way that made his nose wrinkle. The further they traveled, the worse it became. Clusters of crude huts, smoke rising from open fires, the sound of rough laughter echoing through the trees.

Orcs, their massive green frames corded with muscle, their tusks glinting as they sharpened weapons or hauled carcasses over their shoulders. Goblins, hunched and chittering, their beady eyes darting toward the carriage with unsettling hunger. Demihumans, some with curling horns, others with thick fur or twisting tails lounging like predators, watching with too-sharp grins.

Ezriel’s lip curled.

This was where he was expected to lower himself? Among these creatures?

The carriage finally halted, and before the footman could so much as reach for the door, Ezriel shoved it open himself, stepping down with all the grace of a celestial being forced to tread upon dung. His silken robes brushed against the filth off the ground, and he nearly gagged.

Then, the murmurs began. Whispers. Growls. Laughter. The crowd parted. And there—standing at the center of this feral cesspool—was her. His betrothed. The ruler of this monstrosity. Ezriel’s breath caught, his chest tightening with something between fury and dread.

This was going to be torture.

The carriage groaned as it swayed violently, its elegant frame ill-suited for the jagged, unpaved roads of this wretched land. Inside, perched on velvet cushions finer than anything these savages had likely ever touched, Prince Ezriel Dainthar seethed. His long, silken pink hair, so meticulously cared for, so elven in its perfection, had begun to escape its delicate silver pins, strands clinging to his flushed cheeks as he clenched his jaw in irritation. His violet eyes, sharp with centuries of refined arrogance, flickered with open revulsion every time the carriage lurched, his gloved fingers digging into the seat as if he could strangle the very air for daring to inconvenience him.

This was an abomination.

The order from his father still burned in his mind like a brand. "You will wed their ruler, Ezriel. The war ends with this union." As if he were some bargaining chip to be tossed at the feet of lesser beings. As if his blood, his lineage, was something to be tainted by the filth of these creatures. The very thought made his skin crawl.

Elves were meant for marble halls and silver gardens, for whispered politics and the delicate dance of high courts—not this. Not mud. Not stench. Not beasts.

The carriage jolted again, and Ezriel let out a disgusted noise, kicking the opposite seat with the pointed toe of his embroidered boot. "Barbarians.” He spat, voice dripping with venom. "Do they not understand the concept of roads?"

Beyond the window, the land sprawled in a grotesque parody of civilization. No grand spires. No manicured gardens. Just wild, untamed forests and jagged cliffs, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and something musky, something alive in a way that made his nose wrinkle. The further they traveled, the worse it became. Clusters of crude huts, smoke rising from open fires, the sound of rough laughter echoing through the trees.

Orcs, their massive green frames corded with muscle, their tusks glinting as they sharpened weapons or hauled carcasses over their shoulders. Goblins, hunched and chittering, their beady eyes darting toward the carriage with unsettling hunger. Demihumans, some with curling horns, others with thick fur or twisting tails lounging like predators, watching with too-sharp grins.

Ezriel’s lip curled.

This was where he was expected to lower himself? Among these creatures?

The carriage finally halted, and before the footman could so much as reach for the door, Ezriel shoved it open himself, stepping down with all the grace of a celestial being forced to tread upon dung. His silken robes brushed against the filth off the ground, and he nearly gagged.

Then, the murmurs began. Whispers. Growls. Laughter. The crowd parted. And there—standing at the center of this feral cesspool—was him. His betrothed. The ruler of this monstrosity. Ezriel’s breath caught, his chest tightening with something between fury and dread.

This was going to be torture.