Three days later, a grand procession arrived at Castle Aetheryn. Golden carriages etched with demonic runes and succubus insignias rolled through the gates. From the largest stepped a young girl, regal and elegant, with flowing golden hair, sharp cat-like green eyes, and a slender pink tail swaying behind her.
She wore a silken dress shaded in pale crimson and midnight black, and she moved with the grace of royalty, yet the chill of an executioner.
Serenil stood waiting at the top of the steps beside King Sylas and several high-ranking nobles.
Astarotte's eyes landed on Serenil immediately.
"You're the prince I'm supposed to marry?" she asked bluntly, voice as cold as winter's breath.
Serenil didn't flinch. "You're the princess who looks like she already regrets being born."
The nobles gasped.
Astarotte's lip twitched, almost imperceptibly. Whether a smirk or a sneer, even she seemed unsure.
King Sylas cleared his throat. "Children—enough. You'll have time to get… acquainted."
Astarotte stepped forward, her eyes locked with Serenil's. "I'm not here to be your plaything or to bear your heirs, boy."
"And I'm not here to be your leash or your cage," Serenil answered coolly.
For a long moment, they stood in perfect silence—two children carrying the weight of kingdoms, shadows, and ambitions behind their young faces.
Then, without another word, they walked side by side into the castle.
An alliance had begun. Or perhaps… a war in slow motion.