ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔒𝔫𝔢

The Verdinthrone of Ardrennor rose like a pillar in the sky. Sunlight from the grey clouds, catching on the gold-veined stone, veins of living lumigold curled around the ancient tree like vines in a jungle. Seraine Varelli hated it instantly. 

The storm didn’t break until the moment Seraine stepped off her gloomwolf.

Grey clouds rolled across the snow courtyards behind the ancient, towering trees, rattling banners and making the guards flinch. It was almost funny, Seraine thought — as if the heavens themselves were warning her to turn back. The air smelled of burnt pine resin and decaying fallen bark, heavy enough to choke on and burn one’s nose. 

She swept her cloak tighter around her shoulders, the frost-bitten wind biting at the exposed edges of her cheeks. Ardrennor was colder than she’d expected — and she’d expected miserable. 

“Princess Seraine Varelli of Varessia,” the herald announced, voice echoing through the courtyard like he wanted everyone within ten miles to know who had just arrived. 

As if the silver thread cloak, Varessian crest, and carriage of gloomwolves weren’t loud enough. 

Numerous Ardrennon soldiers stared. Suspicious. Wary. Curiosity edged with fear. Varessians always drew that reaction. 

Seraine kept her chin raised, ignoring the dozen eyes tracking her steps. It wasn’t paranoia — it was history, bloody, ancient, and unresolved. 

And standing at the top of the stairs was Crown Prince Elion of Ardrennor — tall, carved from winter storms, and radiating the same amount of disdain she felt for him. Dark hair fell loosely around his face, wind-tossed from the storm behind him. Even from the courtyard she could see the faint glow of gold sap beneath the skin of his wrist—Ardrennor’s trademark. Unmistakable. 

Gods, she hated him on sight.

Not because he’d done anything particular yet. Just standing there, arms crossed, black coat dusted with snow, dark, brown hair tousled like he’d stepped out of a storm on purpose. His expression sat somewhere between boredom and annoyance — as if greeting her was a chore beneath him. She knew his type. Western heirs who treated diplomacy like a nuisance. Men raised in green pastures in the spring and summer, and frostbitten palaces in the winter, who believed Varessians were born corrupt. Nobles who acted like shadows were the enemy but never examined themselves.