The massive iron-shod doors of the Great Hall groaned on their hinges, a sound like a dying beast echoing through the vaulted rafters. A blast of cold, salt-heavy air swept into the chamber, flickering the thousands of tallow candles that lined the stone walls. Elara stood on the dais beside her father's empty throne—the seat of the High King, now draped in the black silk of mourning—and felt the eyes of her entire court upon her back. They were looking for a tremor in her hands. They were looking for the moment the Iron Princess finally bent.
She gave them nothing.
The Southern delegation did not walk; they paraded. At their head was not a diplomat, but a man who looked like he had been forged in the very fires of the sun. Commander Julian, the King's Hand and the most brutal blade in the Southern Reach, stepped onto the Oakhaven rugs with mud-caked boots that seemed a deliberate insult to the craftsmanship of the North. He was clad in gold-lacquered plate armor that caught the dim light, casting shimmering, predatory reflections against the grey stone.
Beside him walked a figure shrouded in a cloak of lion-pelt, his face obscured by the shadows of the Great Hall. But it was the man in the center who stopped the breath in Elara's throat.
He was not the King—not yet. He was the King's shadow, the Crown Prince's youngest brother, Lord Malcor. He had a face of deceptive, angelic beauty, eyes the color of amber, and a smile that suggested he knew exactly what color undergarments every woman in the room was wearing. He stopped at the foot of the dais, bowing with a flourish that was far too deep to be anything but a mockery.
"Princess Elara," Malcor's voice purred, smooth as spiced wine and twice as intoxicating. "The stories told of Oakhaven's frost are true. Even the air in this room feels as though it wishes to shatter us."
"The North does not welcome those who come to harvest what they did not sow, Lord Malcor," Elara replied, her voice cutting through the warmth of his tone like a blade. "You are here for the hostage. Let us dispense with the pleasantries of the South. My trunks are packed, and my father's debt is acknowledged."
Malcor's smile widened, showing teeth that were too white, too perfect. He stepped closer—breaching the three-pace rule of royal etiquette. Elara felt the heat radiating from him, a stark contrast to the drafty hall.
"Hostage? Such a crude word," Malcor whispered, leaning in so only she could hear the silk of his voice. "His Majesty prefers to think of you as a... rare bird. One he has waited a very long time to cage. He did not send me here to fetch a prisoner, Elara. He sent me to ensure that the prize was undamaged."
His gaze dropped to her hand—the one she had refused to glove. The small bead of blood she had allowed to bloom earlier had dried into a dark, rusty crust on her pale skin.
Before she could pull away, Malcor reached out. His fingers, encased in soft, scented leather, caught her wrist. The touch was electric, a violation that sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated fury through her veins. He didn't squeeze; he merely held her, his thumb stroking the pulse point where her heart was thundering a frantic, traitorous rhythm.
"You bleed so easily," he murmured, his amber eyes locking onto hers with a terrifying, predatory intensity. "The King will find that... fascinating. He has always had a weakness for things that are fragile enough to break, yet stubborn enough to try and survive."
Behind her, she heard the sharp intake of breath from her sisters, Lyra and Serafina, who were watching from the shadows of the gallery. She could feel their fear, but she could not turn to comfort them. She was pinned by Malcor's gaze, a rabbit caught in the sights of a golden hawk.
"Tell your King," Elara said, her voice shaking with a rage she could no longer fully hide, "that he may cage the bird, but he will never hear it sing."
Malcor let go of her wrist, but the warmth of his touch lingered like a brand. "Oh, Princess," he said, turning back toward his men with a dark, low laugh. "The King doesn't want you to sing. He wants to hear you scream his name. And in the South, under the heat of our sun, everyone eventually screams."
The Commander gave a sharp signal, and the Southern soldiers began to surround the dais, their golden capes snapping in the wind. The "Peace of Thorns" had officially begun, and Elara realized, with a sinking horror in her gut, that she wasn't just going to a rival kingdom. She was being delivered into the hands of a man who had been dreaming of her ruin since the day the first city burned.