The rain had not stopped in three days.
It drummed against the high arched windows of the Virell estate like a warning, relentless and cold. Elyra Virell sat perched on the edge of the window seat in her mother's study, boots still muddy from her latest escape attempt. Her riding gloves dangled from one hand like a flag of surrender.
Across the room, Duchess Maire Virell stood with the authority of a queen, even though no crown sat on her silver-streaked head. She wore navy robes embroidered with the symbol of their House—a silver hawk mid-flight, wings spread wide, untouchable. Her gaze could cut stone.
"You are not a child, Elyra," the Duchess said coolly. "It's time you understood the weight of your name."
"I understand it just fine," Elyra said, jaw tight. "I just don't see why I have to marry the royal corpse to prove it."
"The royal corpse," her mother echoed, one brow arching. "Is the Crown Prince of Arvelle, and your fiancé."
The word tasted bitter even in thought. Fiancé.
Elyra shot up from her seat. "I never agreed to this."
"You don't have to. Your blood already has."
The Rhiordane Palace loomed like a stormcloud on the edge of the city, all black stone and violet banners. Within its gilded halls, Prince Caelan Rhiordane moved like a shadow—silent, sharp, unbothered by the gossip that flared like wildfire around him.
They called him the Void Prince. A prodigy with no elemental tether except the one that devoured.
People feared the Void. Caelan didn't mind.
In the throne room, Queen Lysandra studied her son over a goblet of spiced wine. Her expression was unreadable, but her voice held the usual edge of quiet threat.
"She arrives tomorrow. Do try to be... tolerable."
Caelan gave her a look. "You act like I'm the problem."
She smiled. "You are. But so is she."
The Garden of Mirrors was alive with whispers.
Enchanted glass lined the hedge walls, each one designed not to show the reflection of your body—but your emotions. Some glowed faintly with color. Others stayed dark.
Elyra walked the path with careful steps, her dress a cascade of violet and silver, her blade—strapped at her thigh—just barely hidden beneath it. She didn't care if it was improper. Being a proper lady hadn't saved anyone in Arvelle's court.
Caelan waited at the center of the garden, all black velvet and sharp eyes. He looked at her like one might a challenge on a chessboard. Calm. Calculating. Bored.
"You're late," he said.
"You're irritating," she replied sweetly.
He smirked. "You'll have to be more creative than that, Lady Virell. The court already thinks we'll kill each other within a week."
"I was thinking three days."
As they walked side by side, a nearby mirror flickered. Elyra glanced at it—just in time to see a shimmer of silver and violet light.
Her irritation. His curiosity. Something soft and sharp that wasn't quite hate.
They both looked away.
"Let's be clear," Caelan said, his voice low. "I won't fall in love with you."
"Perfect," Elyra replied, the ache in her chest sudden and unwelcome. "Then we already have something in common."
From the balcony above, nobles leaned over railings like vultures, sipping wine and savoring scandal.
That night, Elyra sat alone in her chambers, a sealed letter lying untouched on her desk.
It bore her father's crest—sent before his death, never opened. Her fingers brushed it, but she didn't break the seal.
Across the palace, Caelan stood in his private tower, staring at a shard of black crystal held between his fingers. The Void hummed through it like a heartbeat.
They didn't know it yet, but both of them were already falling—just not in the way they expected.
In Arvelle, love wasn't something you fell into.
Sometimes, it was something you were pushed into—daggers drawn.