The ancient city of Aethelgard was asleep, shrouded in a mist that rolled down from the surrounding peaks. But high above, in a manor that clung to the mountainside like a perched eagle, sleep was a forgotten luxury. From the outside, the Aryan estate was a picture of serene, old-world power. Inside, the silence was heavy, thick with an unspoken tension that was far more lethal than the cold wind rattling the tall glass windows. 🌉
Aryan stood by the window of his study, a solitary figure carved from shadow and steel. He was dressed not in the casual wear of a wealthy heir, but in a perfectly tailored, midnight-blue suit that fit him like a second skin, a suit of armor for the modern battlefield. His face was a mask of cold indifference, a carefully constructed defense the world had come to know. But his eyes, the color of a stormy sea, betrayed him. They held a fire, a deep-seated fury that had nothing to do with the cold outside.
The heavy oak door opened without a knock. Samuel, his father, walked in. The air in the room changed instantly, the temperature dropping several degrees. Samuel was an older, more weathered version of his son, his presence commanding and cold. He didn't believe in pleasantries.
"Aryan," he began, his voice devoid of any paternal warmth. "My patience has run its course. This isn't a game."
Aryan didn't turn from the window. "It never is with you, is it?"
Samuel placed a thick file on the mahogany desk. "This empire, everything our family has built for generations, needs stability. It needs a future. The shareholders are restless. They don't trust a maverick bachelor with their investments. They want a man with roots, with commitments. They want a family man."
Finally, Aryan turned, a cynical smile playing on his lips. "So, you want to turn me into a prisoner, just like you? Don't use me to try and fix what you broke, Father. We both know your own 'stable' marriage was a gilded cage that brought no one happiness."
The blow landed. Samuel's jaw tightened, a flicker of pain and rage in his eyes, quickly suppressed. He walked to the desk and tapped the file. "This isn't a request. It's a directive. By the twentieth of next month, you will be engaged."
He paused, letting the words sink in before delivering the final blow. "If you fail to secure a suitable marriage contract by then, I will dissolve my shares and sign over the entirety of my holdings to the Saint Aethelgard Charitable Foundation. Every last cent. You will be left with nothing but the suit on your back and the memories of what you threw away."
The threat hung in the air, a guillotine blade suspended by a single thread. Aryan stared at his father, the fire in his eyes now a cold, hard blaze. His father wasn't just asking him to marry; he was asking him to surrender. He was to become a prince in a golden cage, for the price of a kingdom.
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the mournful howl of the wind outside. Aryan looked at the file on the desk, a contract for his life, his freedom, his future. He had thirty days to decide if a kingdom was worth its cage. 🌋