"The prophecy never warned what love would cost us."

And there she stood.

Lysandra.

Cloaked in black and blood-red satin, her bodice laced in obsidian silk and rubies like drops of war. Her gown didn't whisper like a bride's.

It thundered.

Layers of silk spilled behind her like a wake of flame. Pearls wrapped her hips like chains she'd chosen to wear until she was ready to break them. Her sleeves-one sheer, the other bare-hinted at a design no tailor would've dared suggest.

Because this wasn't a gown.

This was armor.

Her father offered her his arm. She took it without meeting his eyes.

"You couldn't wear white?" he hissed through his smile, jaw locked as they began to walk. "Must you always embarrass me?"

She said nothing.

"You look like a widow," he snapped, "or a bloody war bride. Is that the image you want in the books?"

She kept walking.

Each word was a knife he thought she couldn't feel.

But Daniel-Daniel felt every one.

He stood to the side, forced into shadow, dressed in regulation black. Eyes on her. Spine straight. But inside?

He was bleeding.

Each step she took with that man clinging to her arm was another blade. Every insult her father whispered was a reminder of how powerless Daniel had once been.

But not now.

Not anymore.

Up near the altar, Felipe waited-smiling.

Like he'd already won.

Connor stood beside him, silent. Hollow-eyed. Guilt ghosting across his face like a bruise. He couldn't meet her gaze. He didn't deserve to.

Michelle was seated near the front. Still. Polished. But Lysandra could see it-

The sting in her mother's eyes.

Because she knew what the gown meant.

And somewhere deep in her chest, it burned.

Lysandra walked forward like a weapon being delivered.

And everyone watched her like a girl they didn't recognize.

Only her friends-Miri, Thalia, Anais-remained frozen in their seats.

No smiles.

Just quiet mourning.

Because this wasn't the walk of a bride.

It was a queen making her final approach to the throne of a man she planned to destroy.

And if the dress didn't say it loud enough?

The fire in her eyes did.

The priest's voice echoed across the hall, thick with ceremonial weight. Chanting ancient lines, calling on gods long disinterested in this kingdom.

Lysandra didn't hear a word of it.

She stood at the altar beside Felipe, who looked smug and crowned in control. His hand brushed hers once. She didn't even twitch.

Her gaze was elsewhere.

Scanning.

Searching.

And then-

She found him.

Daniel.

Positioned at the edge of the dais, posted where guards had no business looking that dangerous. And gods-

He was wearing it.

That uniform. The one she'd asked him to wear at the engagement. Crimson and onyx, fitted to him like sin wrapped in velvet and steel. A dagger at his hip, blood-red crystal at his throat, dark embroidery curling down the hem of his coat like fire licking shadow.

It wasn't just matching.

It was meant.

They were dressed like prophecy.

Her breath caught.

He was looking at her.

The kind of look that stripped the air from her lungs and replaced it with something molten.

Not casual. Not curious. Possessive. Like every inch of her — the skin, the bones, the soul — already belonged to him, and he was just standing there in that damn uniform to remind her of the fact.

His gaze didn’t rush. It stalked. Down the slope of her shoulder, tracing the line of her sleeve as if he were memorizing how to take it off. Paused at her mouth — long enough for her lips to part on reflex — before drifting lower, slow enough to be cruel.

And gods, when his eyes came back to hers — heat pooled low, sharp and unbearable. It was worship, yes, but it was worship done on his knees with his teeth at her throat. The kind that made the altar shake. The kind that promised she wouldn’t walk straight if he ever got her alone.

Felipe was speaking beside her, his voice a blur, some grand string of words about loyalty and union. But Daniel’s eyes were a different kind of oath — one only she could hear, one that made her fingers curl against the hem of her dress just to keep from moving toward him.

She blushed.

Gods, she actually blushed.

From the corner, Anais choked on a laugh. Thalia grinned into her sleeve. Miri bit her knuckle to hold in a squeal.

And Felipe?

He was watching.

He just didn't understand what he was seeing yet.

Not a flirtation.

Not a rebellion.

But the quietest love story ever screamed across a battlefield.

The chants faded.

The priest stepped forward, robes shimmering, voice solemn as he faced the gathering.

"As the gods no longer honor vows, we do not insult them with false promises. We ask only this-before witness and sky-does any soul object to this union?"

The silence was so heavy it echoed.

No one moved.

Not yet.

The priest turned toward Felipe.

"Your Majesty, do you choose Lysandra of House Vale as your wife, to rule beside you, to bear your line, and bind herself to your crown?"

Felipe didn't even glance her way.

"I do."

And then-he turned to her.

The priest's voice rang clear: "Princess Lysandra of the kingdom of Asalcesia. Do you choose Felipe Vaughn, King of Aonia, as your husband, to serve his throne, to obey his law, and share his bed?"

The entire hall held its breath.

Her gown shimmered in black and red.

She smiled-bright, savage, devastating.

"No."

Gasps broke across the chamber like cracks in glass.

Then she added, cool and casual:

"I said I'd walk down the aisle. I never said I'd stay at the altar."

Miri gasped. Anais gripped the edge of her seat. Thalia let out a stunned, breathless laugh.

Felipe turned sharply. "You don't have a choice."

She smiled.

That smile.

"Then watch me make one."

The floor beneath her feet cracked.

A spark burst into flame at the hem of her gown-not wild, not uncontrolled. Alive. Obedient. Hers.

Magic.

Real and ancient and furious.

Fire bloomed across the marble aisle as she stepped down from the altar.

It didn't consume her.

It followed her.

Each step she took was echoed by a wave of flame sweeping outward-curling like a red-gold serpent through the aisle, licking up the edges of banners, dancing past the frozen nobles.

The fire didn't burn her.
It cleared her path.

Guards who tried to advance were stopped-flames rose, hissed, dared.

One lunged.

He was scorched back in a single heartbeat, boots blistering.

She never looked back.

Miri was crying.

Thalia's mouth hung open.

Anais whispered, "Holy fuck."

Felipe shouted, "STOP HER!"

But no one moved.

Because the flames weren’t just fire; they were her will made visible, a living wall that knew exactly who it was meant to protect—and who it was meant to destroy.

And now, only he dared to follow, not to save her, but to claim what the fire had made his.