Outside the chamber, the grand hallway pulsed with echoing footsteps. King Hanz strode like a thundercloud, robes snapping in his wake. Behind him trailed First Prince Ritchor, happily chewing a pickle like it was his one purpose in life. Darius moved at the King's flank, his calm presence balancing the storm, while Prince Merin—second-born and every inch the calculating advisor—kept pace with the others. A cluster of gray-haired counselors followed nervously, trying not to breathe too loudly.
The King's fury lashed out first at Darius.
"You were supposed to handle him," Hanz hissed, face red, voice low enough to avoid the ears of the passing servants. "Not—" he threw his hand up in exasperation, "—molest him in front of half the court! Do you realize what that looks like?"
Darius, utterly unfazed, clasped his hands behind his back and replied in his usual calm, honeyed tone. "When taming a beast, one does not ask whether the whip or the chain is more dignified. One asks only if it holds. I chose the tool that held him. There are no improper methods, only ineffective ones. The storm is quiet now. That is the measure of success."
Ritchor crunched loudly into his pickle. "He's got a point, Father."
The King shot him a look so withering that even Merin winced. Ritchor, oblivious, reached for another pickle from his coat pocket.
Darius pressed on smoothly, as though the interruption hadn't happened.
"Your Majesty, if I may—there is one solution that would both stifle the scandal and serve our purpose. Give the marriage contract to Prince Nicolae. His devotion to Queen Kaelani is… undisguised, and with his focus and stamina—" a delicate pause, "—he would no doubt sire not just one heir, but an entire brood. Quickly."
Merin nodded once, as if weighing the logic. "It is efficient."
But the King stopped dead in the middle of the corridor, turning so fast his robes whipped around him like wings. His voice was low, tight, and venomous.
"No."
The single word cut through the air. His jaw clenched, and then, in a tone that could snap a man's spine, he let the truth spill.
"I cannot have Nicolae with Kaelani. The two of them together are a hurricane—too alike, too volatile. Nicolae cannot be leashed, and Kaelani… she cannot be paired with someone who would devote himself solely to her. That would make her untouchable. That would make her stronger."
Ah, Darius thought, there it was. The real reason. Not scandal. Not heirs. Power. Always power. He kept his expression bland, his stance neutral, hiding the sharp interest flashing behind his eyes.
He inclined his head. "Of course, sire. Then the First Prince remains your best choice. But a word of caution…" His tone lowered, almost conspiratorial. "Nicolae will not take this quietly. If you force Kaelani into Ritchor's bed, Nicolae will raise hell the likes of which you cannot control."
King Hanz resumed walking, slower now, each step heavy with calculation. He already knew. He had always known. But the wealth of Nubarra—the jewels, the spices, the rivers of gold, the fertile fields—beckoned too brightly to ignore. Aschenmark was steady but modest, finite in its resources. His duty was to secure more.
Marry Kaelani to Ritchor. Secure the bloodline. Connect the kingdoms. And let Nicolae rage.
The royal entourage surged forward, boots clattering against marble as they made for the Queen's chambers—only to freeze when the double doors slammed open on their own.
Out stormed Queen Kaelani, a whirlwind of rage in silk and jeweled heels that clicked like war drums against the marble floor. Her hair was a glorious mess, her crown tilted like a drunk at last call, and her robe swirled dramatically behind her as though it wanted to slap someone on its own.
Right behind her barreled Nicolae, beltless, trousers half-unbuttoned, one hand tucking in his shirt while the other wrestled with his coat. The sight made it screamingly obvious what had just happened, and gasps from the advisors rolled down the hall like a scandalous wave.
"KAE, COME BACK HERE!" Nicolae barked, half-command, half-plea.
"KAE!" the King's voice cracked like a whip as his fifth son stumbled past.
"NICOLAE!" the King thundered again, the name sharp enough to cut marble.
Nicolae stopped mid-step, head whipping toward his father, eyes wild.
And then—because chaos loves company—the youngest of the Drachenbergs appeared at the opposite end of the corridor. Emily, cheeks flushed, her gown wrinkled like she'd sprinted the whole way. "KAE! NICOLAE! Father?!"
The hall had turned into a cacophony of names being hurled like spears:
Kaelani spun on her heel so hard her robe flared like a battle standard. Her eyes burned, her chest heaved, and when she opened her mouth it wasn't a regal speech or delicate reprimand that poured out.
"WHAT THE FUCK DOES EVERYONE WANT WITH ME?!"
The words thundered down the hallway, rattling vases, startling servants, and silencing even the King's advisors.
Nicolae froze, lips parted. Emily clutched her skirts, speechless. Even the King's face twitched, caught between fury and disbelief.
And Ritchor—standing just behind, pickle halfway to his mouth—murmured around a mouthful, "She's got a point."
Kaelani's roar echoed down the corridor, silencing even the most seasoned courtiers. But the hush lasted only a heartbeat before the hallway erupted like a tavern brawl.
"KAE, DON'T WALK AWAY FROM ME!" Nicolae thundered, stumbling after her with his trousers still betraying him.
"NICOLAE, SHUT YOUR MOUTH BEFORE YOU EMBARRASS ME FURTHER!" the King barked, vein throbbing in his temple.
"FATHER, THIS ISN'T—" Emily tried, clutching her skirts and looking between them.
"OH FOR GOD'S SAKE, GIVE IT A REST!" Kaelani snapped, spinning on her heels. She jabbed a finger at Nicolae. "You—stop chasing me like some lovesick golden retriever!"
Nicolae froze mid-step, mouth half open.
Then she turned her fire on Emily. "Emily, if you scream my name one more time, people are going to think I finally let you fuck me. Is that what you want?"
Emily's jaw snapped shut so fast her teeth clacked.
Finally, Kaelani's gaze locked on the King. She raised her arms dramatically, the sleeves of her gown falling back to bare her wrists like shackles. "And YOU, old man—stop shouting my name like you own it. You don't. My mother gave me that name, not you, and if you think your crown gives you the right to leash me like one of your concubines—think again."
The hallway went dead quiet. Even Ritchor stopped chewing his pickle.
Kaelani's voice dropped low, venom curling in each word.
"You all want me to be your broodmare. You want my blood, my womb, my wealth. You don't give a damn about me. But let me make something perfectly clear—" She stepped forward, chin high, eyes burning into the King's. "I will not be controlled. Not by your sons. Not by your throne. And certainly not by the man who already stole from me once."
The shouting had collapsed into silence, the air thick with the stink of sweat, fear, and scandal. Kaelani stood in the center of the hall like a storm in human skin, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.
Her eyes swept over them all—Nicolae flushed and panting, Emily trembling, Ritchor chewing slower on his damn pickle—but when her gaze landed on the King, it stopped. Froze. Hardened into something sharp enough to cut stone.
Her voice dropped low, every word deliberate, acid laced with iron.
"You want heirs? You want wealth? You want control? Then take it from someone else. Because one Drachenberg already took what he wanted from me…"
She stepped forward, heels ringing against the marble, her eyes never leaving Hanz's face.
"…and I will burn this whole castle down before I let another try."
The court gasped, servants ducked their heads, and Emily looked utterly lost. Ritchor choked on his pickle.
But Nicolae—Nicolae froze like a soldier hearing the whistle of a blade meant for his throat. His eyes darted from his father's stony face to Kaelani's burning stare, and the pieces slammed together in his mind with sickening clarity.
Him.
It was him.
____________________________________________________________________________
Kaelani had long since stormed off, Emily hurrying behind her like a nervous shadow. The grand hall had gone quiet, leaving behind only a mess of toppled pride and scattered whispers. By dawn, the gossip would be wildfire—the Queen's outburst, the King's silence, the Mad Dog's rage.
But for now, the nobles had their scandal diverted. No more talk of Nicolae kissing his captain. No, this was much bigger.
The King retreated to his office, the chamber heavy with smoke and the smell of spilled whiskey. His closest circle gathered: the First Prince Ritchor, slack-jawed as always; Merin, watchful and uneasy; Erich—"Matchstick"—half lounging but uncharacteristically sober; Bennihan, sharp-eyed, arms crossed; and Nicolae, standing rigid with fury, eyes fixed on his father like a predator caged too close to its keeper.
Hanz poured himself another measure of whiskey, his hand steady, his face carved from stone. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, measured—like a man rehearsing sins as excuses.
"It was after her parents were assassinated," he began. "She was left as a ward of this crown. I could not send her back—not with Nubarra in chaos, her uncle clawing for power. I made a promise to her mother. A promise of protection."
He took a swallow, grimaced, and set the glass down hard enough to rattle.
"I tried to seal the peace properly. I offered her marriage, a union that would bind our nations. She refused. Childish. She wasn't thinking as a sovereign. She rejected her duty. So I…" His eyes flickered to the desk. "…made the decision for her. I took her. To secure her line. To secure the future."
The words hung like rot in the air.
A crash split the silence—the small end table splintering against the wall just past the King's head. Nicolae stood trembling, chest heaving, three guards grappling to hold him back. His face was red, his teeth bared, his voice a raw snarl.
"YOU FUCKING BASTARD!" he roared. "No wonder she drinks herself to death, no wonder she's broken—it's because of you! You!"
The guards shoved him down, wrestling him to the floor as he thrashed like a rabid dog. But his eyes never left his father's face.
Hanz didn't flinch. Didn't even look. He raised the glass again, his voice flat.
"I don't expect your forgiveness. I don't expect you to approve. What I did was necessary. And it failed. So we move on. Another path."
He gestured to Merin, who reluctantly set a stack of parchment on the desk—marriage contracts.
Merin hesitated, fingers lingering before he finally spoke, his voice quiet but firm.
"Your Majesty… I cannot approve of this. Not if it is against her will. You've already taken too much from her. Forcing more will destroy her—and us with her."
The King slammed his cup down, whiskey splattering across the contracts. His eyes burned with contempt.
"How dare you, a second son, question me. You think kingship is clean? That I don't weigh evil against worse evil every day of my reign? It is the duty of a sovereign to choose the knife that spares the most throats, even if it still cuts. I have borne that burden again and again. And I will do it again if it means protecting this throne—this kingdom."
His voice dropped to a growl.
"You think I enjoyed it? You think I wanted it? It was not cruelty. It was necessity. It was the lesser evil."
The room froze after Hanz's declaration of "the lesser evil."
The room was suffocatingly silent. Merin looked stricken. Bennihan's fists clenched at her sides. Erich's smirk had vanished.
Then, in an instant, Nicolae snapped.
With a snarl, he tore free of the guards holding him. His elbow cracked one in the jaw, his boot drove into another's stomach, and the third went sprawling under the sheer force of his rage. Before anyone could react, Nicolae vaulted across the desk, scattering contracts and spilling whiskey, his hands closing around his father's throat.
"You destroyed her!" he roared, voice raw, animal. "You ruined her life, and you dare call it duty?!"
The King struggled but held his ground, gripping Nicolae's wrist in a vice-like hold. "Enough!" he barked, ramming his whiskey glass into his son's temple. Glass shattered, liquor and blood streaking down Nicolae's face.
Still he didn't stop. He lunged again, teeth bared, until Bennihan and Matchstick slammed into him from behind. Guards swarmed, piling on him, dragging him down with grunts and curses. Nicolae kicked, snarled, bit like a mad dog, his wild eyes never leaving his father.
"Hold him!" Merin shouted, but even he sounded shaken.
It took six men to drag Nicolae toward the door, his boots gouging the floor, his body thrashing with unbroken fury.
And just before the threshold, just before they hauled him into the corridor, Nicolae raised his head, blood dripping down his face, and locked eyes with his father.
His voice was hoarse, guttural, and venomous:
"The lesser evil? Then gods help you, Father—because I'm the greater one."
The door slammed behind him, leaving the office in silence but for the sound of Hanz's steady, deliberate breathing—and the echo of his son's words burning in everyone's ears.
____________________________________________________________________________
The carriage rattled softly through the night, but inside it was silent.
Milly had pressed herself against Kaelani's back, warm and steady, while the Queen stared out the window with eyes that weren't really seeing. She was gone somewhere deep inside herself, silent, shoulders stiff.
On the other side, Emily sat with her fan folded neatly in her lap, her gaze fixed on Kaelani. She'd seen tantrums. She'd seen drunken fits. She'd seen Kaelani brawl, laugh, and curse down lords twice her size.
But she had never seen this.
Never a real cry. Never that raw hurt leaking through the cracks.
Emily leaned forward, tapping Kaelani's knee gently with her fan.
"Hey… Kaelani. What happened in there?"
Kaelani didn't turn, didn't move. Her voice came out flat, clipped.
"I don't want to talk about it."
That was all. But for Emily, it was enough to feel her own chest ache.
She had always seen Kaelani defend others, shield them, fight tooth and nail for them. But who had ever done the same for her? That was what made people love her—or hate her, but still never look away. She was fire. Burning alone. Bright, untouchable, unstoppable.
But here, in this carriage, Kaelani wasn't untouchable. She was just… broken.
Emily reached out and squeezed her knee, her voice soft but certain.
"Well… when you're ready, I'm here. Always."
Milly's hand smoothed over Kaelani's back, and she whispered, "Me too." Then she wrapped her arms around the Queen, holding her close.
And that was when Kaelani's shoulders finally shook, her eyes brimming until the tears spilled over.
Emily and Milly caught each other's gaze over her bowed head and, without a word, just held the line. Let her cry. Let her break. They could fight the world later. For now, they would just be there.
____________________________________________________________________________
Bootsteps clicked down the dungeon corridor — crisp, new, ceremonial boots that hadn't yet learned how to hush themselves. Right on time.
Nicolae was propped against the iron bars, jaw set, when the procession arrived. He spun with a lazy, dangerous grin. "Finally. I was beginning to miss the scenery."
That grin died when he saw who followed the King: Hanz, Merin, and, of course, Ritchor — the first prince, clinging to his father like a newborn pup at the teat. Nicolae let his arms drape through the bars and leaned forward with a confidence only a maniac could manufacture in chains.
Hanz didn't bother with greetings, not even a lecture. His words dropped like an axe.
"You're being shipped out. Back to Nubarra."
Nicolae snapped upright, grabbing the bars. "What?! You assault her, you drive her to madness, and I'm the one punished for protecting her?"
Hanz planted his hands on his hips, a posture meant to make him look taller than the son who'd nearly throttled him an hour ago. He lifted one finger, the royal lecture ready. "You are jeopardizing everything I have built. Everything. You will go. You will secure Nubarra. You will make it safe for Kaelani. After she bears Ritchor's child, you may return."
Nicolae's head swung to Ritchor. The first prince gave a knowing smirk — the kind that only existed because he thought he was finally beyond reach. "Don't worry, Nicolae," Ritchor said, preening. "I'll make sure your Queen is very… fulfilled in bed while I'm her husband."
Before Ritchor could finish gloating, something slapped wetly across his face with a disgusting smack.
He stumbled back, sputtering, pawing at himself. "Ugh—what—what the hell is this?!"
Everyone's eyes dropped to the dungeon floor where the sodden projectile had landed. At first glance it looked like a filthy rag, soaked through, limp, twitching slightly.
Then the "rag" twitched harder. Its whiskers wiggled. It squealed and bolted for the shadows.
Ritchor staggered back, wiping at his cheek. The thing that had hit him squirmed and scurried over the stone, a sodden, horrified little rat that made a break for the shadows. Squeaks and curses filled the room.
"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!" Ritchor shrieked, flailing. "WHERE DID THAT—WAS THAT A RAT? PLAGUE—"
The guards hustled the squealing prince out of the dungeon with one embarrassed escort each. Merin bit back a laugh so hard his jaw ticked; he couldn't help it — the sight had justice smeared all over it.
When the corridor cleared, Hanz's face shifted back to steel. "If your brother catches the plague because of this, I will have you exiled," he snarled.
Nicolae spat in the gutter. "Ritchor and you are the plague."
Hanz's voice, cold and sovereign, smoothed over the fury. "Kaelani will marry Ritchor. You will go to Nubarra and secure it. That is your role. That is Ritchor's role. Kaelani's role is to bear him heirs. We are cogs. Without the cog, the machine grinds to ruin. This is the way of things."
Nicolae barked, voice cutting through the dungeon like steel on stone:
"Over my dead body. You can do whatever you want with me — chain me, ship me off, bleed me dry — but nobody touches Kae. Not even me. Not without her permission."
The words had a weight now that hadn't been there before: finite, implacable, a promise that did not bend. Hanz felt it like cold iron along his spine. For an instant — a single, terrible instant — he imagined having his son put down. The thought tasted like ash.
Optics stopped him. Nicolae, despite the blood on his face and the snarls, was still a hero to too many. Executing him now would be a fire Hanz couldn't fight while he was trying to secure Nubarra.
So the King turned, the order given, the gamble made.
"Prepare him for departure," Hanz said quietly. "He'll be sent with the next recruits shipping out to Nubarra."
Nicolae gripped the bars, watching his father's back retreat. These weren't prison bars anymore. They were the first line of battle.