The corridor outside Aria's chambers whispered with late-hour stillness. Beyond the heavy door, candlelight trembled across the walls, catching on silken drapes and the faint shimmer of her gown. She sat at her vanity, unbraiding her hair, when the knock came, soft, hesitant, too formal for family.
"Come in," she called.
The door opened. Her mother stepped in first, a figure of grace undone , her robe clasped too tightly, eyes red from weeping. King Thorne followed, his shadow filling the room before his voice did.
"Aria," he said quietly.
She cautiously set the brush on the mirror's shelf, her fingers lingering for a heartbeat before she turned. "Father, Mother, what brings you at this hour?"
Venice crossed the floor swiftly, gathering Aria's hands between her own. "My child," she murmured, voice thin, "the council has spoken," and her lips trembled as she spoke, "the tribute is decided."
"Tribute?" Aria frowned. "We're sending offerings to Varcia?"
Thorne nodded once, the motion sharp and heavy. "Asteria must act before Varcia does. If we show goodwill first, a gesture of surrender, we might prevent invasion."
The air tightened. "You're giving them treasures?" she asked.
Venice's eyes glistened. "More than just treasures."
Aria's heart lurched. "Then what?"
Thorne's jaw set, his gaze distant. "Valtor believes sending a royal hostage will guarantee peace. They'll see it as faith, not fear."
Aria went still. "A hostage?" she whispered. "Then Ava, "
"No," Venice interrupted quickly, eyes frantic. "She's too young. And Ryker must remain heir."
Realization moved across Aria's face like a slow frost. "Then who?"
Her father didn't answer.
Venice drew a folded parchment from her sleeve, the wax seal already broken. "Your name is written, Aria. You are the tribute , the pledge of peace to Varcia."
The room seemed to tilt. "You what?" she said, voice cracking.
Thorne's tone hardened, though his voice quivered beneath it. "We've offered survival. The kingdom bleeds, child. This will stop it."
The words struck, and all color drained from her face. For a heartbeat, she stood unmoving, the candlelight wavering across the marble beneath her feet. Then the restraint shattered, a sound broke from her throat, small at first, then rising into a raw, unguarded cry. She sank to her knees, shoulders trembling, tears spilling hot down her cheeks. "No," she gasped between breaths. "Why… "
Venice dropped to her own knees beside her, gathering Aria in a clumsy, desperate hold. "You'll be a bridge," she whispered, voice thick. "Not a chain."
"Bridge?" Aria echoed, hollow, wracked with grief. "A bridge they'll burn the moment they cross."
Thorne's hand struck the mantel. "Enough. The envoy departs at dawn. You will go with them. Asteria's peace depends on it."
Aria's sobs stuttered into the silence; the candles guttered as if listening. She pressed her palms against the silk of her gown, as though to keep herself from vanishing into the fabric.
She rose slowly, wet eyes meeting the mirror's trembling reflection. "Then let peace remember what it cost," she whispered, voice raw.
Outside, the night wind clawed at the windows, carrying the faint toll of the city bells.
When her parents left, the room seemed colder, emptier, only the parchment remained on the dressing table, its ink still dark, sealing her fate as the offering that would buy Asteria's fragile peace.
The gardens slept under a pale wash of moonlight, the fountains stilled, the roses heavy with dew. Beyond the marble arches, the palace was dark and hushed, its windows shuttered against the hour. Only the faint rustle of silk broke the stillness as Aria crossed the gravel path, her cloak drawn tight around her.
"Aria."
The whisper came from the shadows near the old laurel tree. Franz stepped into the moonlight, his face drawn, eyes rimmed red. He looked nothing like the spirited court musician who once filled her days with laughter, tonight, he was only a man breaking quietly beneath the weight of loss.
"You shouldn't be here," she said softly, though her voice quivered.
He shook his head. "You think I'd let you leave without a word?" He stepped closer, the moonlight brushing his face. "They told me at the stables, at dawn, you're to be sent to Varcia. As tribute."
The word trembled in the air between them.
Her throat tightened. "I didn't want you to find out this way."
"Then how?" His voice trembled, hollow with grief. "By watching your carriage fade beyond the hills and pretending my heart does not follow?"
She turned away, staring toward the dark line of the horizon. "It isn't my choice, Franz."
He caught her hands, holding them as if the world itself might fall away. "Then let me fight for you. I'll have my father speak to the King, to the council. He can make them see reason."
"No." Her voice was barely a whisper. "Don't make this harder than it already is."
"Harder?" He let out a strained, hollow laugh, tears burning at the corners of his eyes. "You're being sent into the jaws of a kingdom that spares no foe, and you call that duty?"
Her eyes glistened in the moonlight. "They can take me," she whispered, "but they can't have my heart."
Franz's breath caught. He pressed her hands to his lips, trembling. "Then I'll die holding it."
For a moment, the world stilled , the wind, the fountains, the distant tolling of bells , all fell silent beneath the weight of their goodbye. She leaned into him, her forehead resting against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart, the warmth she would soon lose.
He whispered, "If you go, you'll never return."
Aria's eyes closed, a tear sliding down her cheek. "Then remember me as the girl who would have stayed, if the crown had allowed it."
Beneath the old stone arch, Aria and Franz held each other in silence, their grief too deep for words. His arms encircled her as though he could shield her from what awaited, her tears soaking into his shoulder while his hand lingered in her hair.
The garden lay quiet beneath the waning moon, the air cool and still, heavy with the scent of lilies.
At last, sorrow gave way to exhaustion. Still bound in each other's arms, they sank beneath the elm's shadow, where silence folded around them like mourning cloth. The night passed without measure, only their shallow breaths and the faint rustle of leaves marked the hours slipping away.
When the first pale hues of dawn touched the garden, Aria stirred. Franz slept beside her, his hand still gripping hers even in sleep, his lashes damp with the weight of what they could not change. She lingered, her eyes tracing his face, her heart heavy with what she must leave behind.
Quietly, she untied the pale ribbon from her hair and placed it in his palm. "Keep this," she whispered, her voice trembling. "So you'll know I meant every word."
Her lips brushed his brow, soft, lingering, before she rose. The folds of her gown swept gently over the grass as she turned toward the palace, her figure slipping away into the dim light of morning.
Franz stirred awake moments later, reaching for her, only to find the space beside him empty. The ribbon lay in his hand, pale as the moon's last breath.
A horn blared across the courtyard. Voices rose. "The princess must prepare!" someone shouted. Franz ran, heart pounding, cutting through the halls like a man chasing a dream already fading, but when he reached her chamber doors, they stood open and empty. He was too late.
The courtyard lay still beneath the pale morning sun. The fountains had been silenced, their marble bowls dry; the sound of water, once a comfort, would have felt obscene in a morning like this. Servants moved like ghosts between the wagons, stacking gilded chests, silks, and sealed scrolls, the wealth of Asteria packed as if for burial.
King Thorne stood alone at the center of it all, robed in crimson and shadow. His crown caught the light, yet his eyes seemed fixed on something far beyond the courtyard walls, something none of them could see. Around him, silence rippled like a held breath.
Lord Merin approached from the steps, bowing deeply. "Your Majesty," he said, his tone low and measured. "The tribute stands ready. All has been prepared as the council decreed." He hesitated, eyes flicking toward the waiting procession before continuing, quieter still. "They await your command to depart."
Thorne's gaze swept over the courtyard, the wagons lined in solemn order, each bearing the silver falcon in a crimson encirclement, Asteria's proud mark. "And the people?" he asked, his voice low and distant. "Are they aware?"
"They are, Your Majesty," Merin answered. "They believe it a gesture of strength, that Asteria chooses peace, not submission."
Thorne's mouth curved in something that might have been a smile, if not for the bitterness in it. "Peace by offering our blood," he murmured. "Tell me, Merin… do you call that strength?"
The lord bowed his head. "I call it survival."
A wind stirred the courtyard, scattering dust over the polished stone. Somewhere above, a bell tolled, slow, deliberate, final. Thorne turned toward the sound, shoulders heavy beneath the weight of his robes.
"Send word to the chamberlain," he said. "The procession leaves before sunset. I will not have delay."
"As you command, Majesty." Merin hesitated, then added softly, "And the princess?"
Thorne's voice turned to iron. "She will be ready. No word of hesitation will reach Varcia's ears."
Merin inclined his head, but as he turned away, his expression betrayed what Thorne's did not, the deep unease that hung over every man in the palace.
When the courtyard emptied, Thorne remained, a single figure among the wagons meant to buy his kingdom's fragile peace. He lifted one hand to his crown, fingers brushing the cold gold
as though it burned.
"If peace demands her," he whispered, to no one at all, "then let the gods remember who paid the price."