𝑺𝒆𝒗𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝑪𝒂𝒆𝒍𝒘𝒚𝒏

Setting: A high-vaulted dining hall in Caelwyn Palace. Cold candlelight. A fireplace burns, but offers no warmth. The long table stretches between them — symbolic, deliberate.

She sits at one end of the table, still in the silken gown they dressed her in after the wedding. Her crown removed. Her name already taken.

At the other end, Sevrith Caelwyn drinks wine like it's the only part of the evening worth consuming. His eyes never leave her.

“You’re not eating.”

Her fork stills mid-air. “Nor are you.”

“I don’t need food. I want… understanding.”

She laughs, but it’s sharp and hollow.

“You imprisoned your own brother. Forced a treaty marriage. You don't want understanding, Sevrith — you want obedience.”

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “No. I want honesty. If you don’t love Cyran, say it again.”

“I never loved him.”

“And you’ll never love me either. You’ve said that too.”

The room feels colder.

“Then allow me this,” he says quietly, placing his glass down. “If you won’t give me your heart — I’ll take your time. Your body. Your nights. And eventually, I’ll make you love me.”

Her throat tightens. Her knife slips slightly from her hand. She can’t tell if the sting in her eyes is anger or fear.

“You’re delusional,” she murmurs. “You think obsession is affection.”

“No,” he says. “I think I’ve starved for too long. And I’m finally at a feast.”

He leans back.

“Eat, wife. You’ll need strength. Our line requires an heir.”

She stares at him — a prince carved from grief and obsession — and realizes: This marriage is not peace. It’s the beginning of hellish life.