Prologue
The world had once known peace, fragile as spun glass, yet beautiful in its fragility. Twelve great kingdoms sprawled across the lands, each a jewel of power, culture, and ambition. Smaller kingdoms dotted the map like stars, but they were but sparks in the shadow of the twelve titans. For centuries, they had maintained a tense equilibrium, bound by treaties written in ink and blood, by alliances forged in marriage and war alike. Yet, peace is a fickle thing. One spark, and it can ignite a storm.
Grecia had been such a spark. Once a proud, measured kingdom, it had fallen under the ambition of a single man: King Belmont. A ruler both brilliant and cruel, he had stared at the fragile balance of kingdoms and scoffed. "Ah, fuck peace," he had muttered, voice echoing through the marbled halls of his fortress. "I want it all." That simple, reckless craving had birthed the Great Siege—a war that would scorch the earth and redefine the borders of power forever.
Belmont's army was ruthless. They wielded blades of unmatched sharpness, forged by the kingdom's finest smiths, enchanted to pierce armor and flesh alike. And he had allies the world had only whispered of—the demon race, creatures of shadow and malice, who answered only to blood and gold. With their aid, Grecia struck six of the twelve kingdoms in a single decade-long campaign. Cities fell like wheat before the scythe; walls were razed, banners trampled, and millions perished beneath the relentless tide of steel and fire. Among the fallen was Anirc, a kingdom once known for its beauty and scholarly brilliance. And from Anirc came Amanda Scarlett.
The day Anirc fell is etched into history, though Amanda's memory of it is far more personal. She had not fallen as a princess of the realm, seated upon velvet cushions and surrounded by courtiers. No, she had fallen from grace, from the world she had known and the family who had loved her. She had crawled through smoke-choked corridors, carried the weight of debris upon her back, and emerged into a city that no longer belonged to anyone. Her father, King Roland Scarlett, survived, but his eyes—once warm with pride—had turned cold, distant. Her mother wept, quietly, endlessly. And her younger sister, the one meant to inherit the spotlight of beauty and nobility, had watched Amanda's life crumble while the world applauded her survival.
Time passed, as it does, indifferent to pain. By the time Amanda reached eighteen, the kingdom had been rebuilt, its walls taller, its streets cleaner, its banners flying once more in colors that spoke of resilience rather than defeat. And yet, Amanda herself had not been so easily restored. She bore the scars of fire—marks upon her skin, etched deep into her flesh, souvenirs of a life nearly lost. They were ugly, most people said, though the words stung more than the wounds ever could. Her betrothal to the Duke Gruot household, once a symbol of alliance and hope, was broken with a single, cold letter. The official reason: the war had changed everything. Amanda knew the truth. Her beauty had survived, yes, but not unblemished. Her father could not meet her gaze without wincing. Only her mother and the head maid, the two women who had seen her crawl from the ruins and refused to look away, offered love without condition.
And now she would leave the walls of Anirc behind. The Empiral Honour School awaited her, a citadel of education and nobility, where heirs and scions of kingdoms and great houses learned diplomacy, swordsmanship, arcane arts, and every nuance of courtly power. No more home schooling, no more protective seclusion. She would step into a world that did not care for scars, only for pedigree, capability, and appearances.
Across the land, preparations were being made for her arrival. And her betrothed awaited—not the Duke Gruot she had once known, not any man of gentle affection, but someone who was legend even before he set foot in her life.
Arthur Grayhound.
Third son of the Grayhound royal household of Quizlet, Arthur was described in whispers and proclamations as the embodiment of perfection: tall, broad-shouldered, every muscle a testament to discipline, every gesture radiating authority. And yet, despite being the third son, he outranked his elder siblings in the eyes of the court, a silent acknowledgment of a talent and power that could not be ignored. Rumors claimed that were he of age, the throne would already have been his, by right and by fear alike.
At fifteen, he had single-handedly wiped out a small kingdom that dared to trade in human lives—a demonstration not merely of martial skill, but of cold, unyielding judgment. Pride, power, arrogance—words often used to describe him, though few outside the Grayhound household had seen the truth. Arthur was a storm in human form, contained only by choice, not by limitation.
And now, he would be Amanda's betrothed.
When the announcements reached Anirc, they were met with silence, and then with whispers. What would perfection find in imperfection? How would a boy who carried the weight of prophecy and the sword of kings meet a girl who bore the weight of survival and scars that no beauty could erase? The world of nobility was cruel, but it was also unforgiving. And yet, there was a spark—fragile, fragile as hope—within Amanda that dared to imagine a meeting not of disdain, but of understanding.
Her journey to the Empiral Honour School began on a cold morning, the carriage wheels crunching on frost-hardened soil. She looked out over the kingdom she had once known and thought of the night the flames had claimed her childhood. She traced the path her life had taken: from princess to survivor, from beloved daughter to blemished heir, from a girl wrapped in silks to one wrapped in shadows of the past. And yet, she held herself upright. For the first time in years, Amanda Scarlett dared to look forward, not back.
Arthur, meanwhile, awaited her arrival with a quiet confidence that few could withstand. He had been informed of her history, of her scars, of the broken betrothal that had preceded him. And yet, he felt nothing but anticipation. There was a certain fascination in the idea of a woman who had survived flames that would have consumed lesser souls. A challenge, perhaps, but also a mirror of the kind of strength he admired—not born of privilege or power, but forged in the crucible of suffering.
The Empiral Honour School itself loomed in the distance like a fortress of destiny, its spires catching the morning light. Within its walls, alliances would be tested, rivalries born, and the next generation of rulers and warriors would shape the fate of kingdoms. And among them, the meeting of perfection and imperfection would not merely be an event; it would be a collision, a spark that threatened to ignite more than just hearts.
Amanda Scarlett stepped from the carriage. She bore her scars openly, no longer hiding behind silks or veils. Her gaze swept over the school, over the courtyards bustling with nobles, heirs, and scions. And then she saw him. Arthur Grayhound. Standing tall, every inch the legend the world had described, every movement calculated, every gaze piercing. And for a heartbeat, the air itself seemed to hold its breath.
She, a girl marked by fire and betrayal, and he, a boy marked by power and prophecy. Two worlds poised to collide, two destinies entwined not by choice, but by the inevitability of ambition, duty, and desire.
The prologue ended not with fire, nor with a blade, but with a single, unspoken question: what happens when perfection meets imperfection?
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The end.....