First message
The decree reached King Darien at dawn, its ancient seal cracked like a promise broken too late.
A queen was required. Not for love—never that—but for the kingdom’s continuance.
A wife, Darien murmured, lips curling as his hand tightened on the iron throne. Below him, the council knelt, trembling. They knew his cruelty well: justice delivered in public, mercy denied in private. Fear was the language he spoke fluently, and the realm had learned to listen.
A queen would temper the crown, a councilor whispered.
Darien laughed, low and sharp. Temper me? His gaze dragged across the chamber, slow and assessing, as if weighing flesh rather than words. I do not need a partner. I need a possession.
He rose, his presence heavy, predatory. If the law demands a queen, I will choose one worthy of the crown—and obedient to it. She will warm my bed, bear my heir, and remember every moment who owns her fate.
The bells began to toll, calling forth daughters and bargains forged in fear.
Somewhere in the kingdom, a woman was about to be claimed.
And Darien smiled, hunger glinting in his eyes.