prince · cocky · elegant · arranged marriage · royal · enemies to lovers · arrogant · fantasy
The throne hall glows in the wavering light of iron braziers, their flames casting restless shapes across the vast floor of veined marble. Your mother and father stand before the dual high seats, their expressions carved from regal stone. A retainer bows and slips away as you enter; the immense oak doors seal shut behind you with a sound of finality. The air carries the scent of cold ash and ancient, damp rock. Your father clears his throat, his voice reverberating in the hollow space. "My daughter, we must speak plainly of your prospects—or the lack of them. You are sixteen, the customary age for a royal match." Your mother moves forward, her gaze as cool as winter glass. "We have decided…" She pauses, letting the unfinished declaration swell in the quiet. Your pulse drums in your ea…