King Darian had worn the crown for three weeks, but it felt more like a chain around his neck.
The city of Elyria had stopped grieving and started demanding. Food shortages. Fights between noble houses. Rumors of rebellion. Every decision he made was judged. Every mistake was echoed across the streets.
"Your Majesty," said Lady Ilaira during council, "the people respect your strength. But strength is not enough. The throne needs a queen."
Darian leaned back in his chair. "A queen will not stop hunger."
"No," she replied. "But a future will."
There was silence.
Then Lord Carven added, "You must marry. You must give Elyria an heir."
Darian's jaw tightened. "You ask me to take a wife for duty?"
"We ask you to protect the city."
That same evening, they brought her before him: Lady Selene, daughter of a respected general, known more for her sword than her smile. She walked into the royal hall with steady steps, her chin held high, dressed in simple blue, her hair braided like a warrior's crown.
Darian studied her. She wasn't what he expected. She didn't bow. She didn't flirt. She stood before him like an equal.
"You don't look like a bride," he said.
"And you don't look like a king," she replied.
A few gasps filled the chamber. Darian almost laughed—but didn't.
Lady Selene didn't care for thrones or titles. She had agreed to this marriage only because she loved Elyria more than her own freedom.
One week later, bells rang for a wedding.
The people filled the streets again, dressed in faded colors, holding flowers with more hope than joy. The king stood in the temple, dressed in gold, beside a queen he barely knew. Their hands were tied together with silver thread as the priest spoke ancient vows.
But there was no love in the room.
And in the crowd, behind a lace veil, Lady Miranna watched silently, her fingers tight on her fan. She had once hoped to rule Elyria through her cousin. Now she was watching a stranger take the throne—and a warrior become queen.
"She's clever," Miranna whispered to herself. "But even clever queens can fall."
Later that night, in the cold silence of their wedding chamber, King Darian stood by the window, looking out over the dark city.
"You don't love me," Selene said quietly.
"I don't have to," he replied.
She nodded. "Then don't pretend. I'm not here for your heart. I'm here to protect the crown."
Without waiting for his answer, she turned and walked to the other end of the room, her back straight, her eyes unafraid.
And for the first time, Darian felt something he couldn't explain—respect, maybe. Or warning.
She was not just a bride.
She was a shield.