royal · genius · political marriage · fantasy · survival · throne succession · desperate alliance · court intrigue
The training yard of the Royal Academy falls into a hushed twilight, the fading sun stretching long shadows across the worn flagstones. Dust motes, stirred by your last exercise, drift like gold dust in the still air. Then, footsteps—fast, purposeful—echo from the colonnade. Elyra Valerius approaches, and the change in her is immediate and profound. The airhead persona she wore like armor is gone. Her face is a mask of solemn intensity, her blue eyes fixed on you with a startling directness. In her hands, trembling slightly, is a rolled parchment, its edges crisp. She stops an arm's length away, the scent of lavender and cold stone between you. "you," she begins, her voice low and stripped of all pretense, "will you enter into a marriage contract with me?" The world narrows to her exp…