As night fell over the city, the air grew still, and the hour grew late. It was only a matter of time before the castle bells rang, signalling the hour when the city would fall into slumber. The drawbridge would rise, sealing the castle from the rest of the city, and only the most vigilant guards would remain awake. Ariella knew she had little time to return before the drawbridge closed. She quickened her pace, reaching the bridge where guards stood, their flaming torches flickering in the night.

  The castle, ablaze with countless fires, looked even grander in the darkness. It was a magnificent fortress, its towering walls patrolled by guards and archers. Ariella and her brother Darion had once counted the towers — at least twenty-two in all. Their brother Aerimus, with his keen military mind, had always believed that even if the city fell, it would take a separate siege to breach the castle.

  As Ariella approached, the squad of guards straightened, their eyes sharp as they braced their halberds.

  “Halt! Who goes there?” demanded the commanding guard, his voice stern.

  “It is your Princess,” Ariella replied, pulling back her hood to reveal her emerald eyes and dark auburn hair. Recognition flickered across their faces.

  Immediately, the guards snapped back to attention, their stances more respectful now.

  “My apologies, Your Highness!” the commanding guard stammered, embarrassed.

  Ariella chuckled softly, bemused by his sudden change in demeanour.

  “You needn’t apologize for doing your job,” she said calmly, offering him a warm smile as she passed, heading toward the castle gates.

  Unseen by her, the guards exchanged glances, their thoughts drifting to the mystery of winning her heart, as they lingered for the rest of their evening shift.

  Inside the castle, the halls were quiet, save for the soft sounds of servants tending to candles or cleaning. Ariella made her way to her chambers, her footsteps echoing in the solitude. Upon entering, she found her sword resting on the tabletop, next to the fruit bowl Darion had picked earlier that morning. A sense of unease settled over her as she realized she wasn’t alone.

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  A dark silhouette sat in the corner of the room, his presence unmistakable.

  “It is a fine sword, my child,” his voice rumbled, low and recognizable, even in the dimness.

  Ariella froze, her hand instinctively moving toward the hilt of the sword. She had hoped to keep this secret a little longer, but her father was too perceptive. In Tyrancia, it was forbidden for women to bear arms, and both Darion and Jaxton had warned her. Upon her return to Tyrana, Ariella had told Shaya that the sword was Darion’s and to place the sword in his chambers, she was not expecting her father to discover it so soon.

  “It… it is not mine,” she stammered, her voice laced with fear.

  High King Alistair rose from his chair, using his silver gryphon-headed cane for support. His footsteps echoed as he walked toward her.

  “You are a terrible liar, my daughter,” he said with a touch of humour in his voice, his tone calming her nerves.

  “I had expected your brother to commission you a sword someday. I am not surprised.”

  Ariella looked at her father, a warm smile tugging at the corners of her lips, grateful for his understanding.

  “I know it is forbidden,” she admitted. “I will not use it.”

  “I do not remember having this conversation,” her father replied with a teasing grin. Despite his light-hearted words, his eyes betrayed a hint of seriousness. He had decided, and he would let her keep the sword — and the secret — between them.

  He gestured to the chairs near the fireplace, inviting her to sit. As the flames crackled, warming the room, Alistair grew more serious. Ariella could sense the weight of what he was about to say.

  “It is time you were betrothed, Ariella,” he said, his voice firm, his words final.

  Ariella’s stomach twisted at the sound of those words. She had dreaded this moment, and the thought of betraying Jaxton was unbearable. She had postponed it for as long as she could, but she knew this day would come.

  Alistair placed a hand on hers, sensing her unease.

  “I know this is difficult for you,” he said gently.

  “But your brother, before all of this, asked me to name you heir in his stead. I do not know if he will recover, but I intend to honour his wish. However, you cannot remain unbetrothed. If you are to become Queen, you must secure our line.”

  Ariella sat in stunned silence, unable to find the words. Her father’s words echoed in her mind, and she could not help but wonder who her betrothed would be.

  “Our alliances with Ardor have already been severed since I rejected High King Titos’ proposal for your hand,” her father continued, his voice steady.

  “Therefore, I intend to betroth you to his son, Prince Tybalt Whitetower.”

  The name struck her like a cold wind. Prince Tybalt was handsome, strong, literate, and the heir to one of the largest lands in Loria. Many had been surprised he had not yet been betrothed, perhaps because his father had waited for this very moment. Yet, as the words sank in, one thought consumed her — he was not Jaxton Reed.