Elira sat inside the royal carriage, her gloved hands folded neatly in her lap, her expression serene.
On the surface, it was a procession of celebration—the future Princess of Solvelyn being paraded before the people.
But Elira knew better.
This was a display of power. A message to the Empire's enemies that the blood of Elyndor would now run through Solvelyn's veins.
A message not everyone was willing to accept.
The attack came without warning.
The clash of swords slicing through the silence.
The royal guards scrambled into formation, but the assailants moved like shadows, striking hard and fast.
Elira's instincts screamed at her—Move.
Without hesitation, she shoved the door open and leapt into the snow.
The cold bit deep, but Elira barely felt it.
She tore the hem of her gown away, freeing her legs, and seized a fallen guard's sword in one fluid motion.
A figure lunged at her, masked and cloaked in gray, blending perfectly with the storm.
She didn't wait.
Elira ducked under the assassin's blade, turning sharply, and drove her sword up—straight through his side.
A gasp escaped the attacker's lips as he fell to his knees.
Breathless but steady, Elira yanked the sword free.
Another assailant rushed her, but this time, she was ready.
Her blade met his mid-swing l
They struggled—an ugly, brutal clash.
And then—she slipped low, slashing his leg.
The man crumpled into the snow bleeding.
Elira stood over him, her heart hammering.
The man coughed, and grabbed her wrist with a death grip.
He yanked her close, enough that she could see the hatred in his bloodshot eyes.
"The curse," he rasped, "you must not survive."
And then he collapsed, dead at her feet.
Slowly, Elira turned—and found Kael standing atop a ridge, untouched, his sword still sheathed
He had been watching.
His gaze, sharp and unreadable, locked onto her blood-smeared figure.
Not a hint of alarm.
Not a flicker of concern.
Just… calculation.
And something that might have been the barest glimmer of admiration.
Elira met his gaze without flinching, lifting her bloodied sword in salute.
Kael inclined his head slightly—a subtle nod of acknowledgment.
Not as a prince to his betrothed.
But as a warrior recognizing another.
The snow continued to fall, covering the dead.
But Elira knew better than to think the danger was over.