The grand halls of the palace gleamed under the golden light of the chandeliers, the polished marble floors reflecting the magnificence of Valtara’s seat of power. The scent of aged parchment and burning torches mixed in the air, carrying the whispers of the past and the weight of present tensions. The murmurs of courtiers and guards alike quieted as the grand doors were pushed open, revealing a figure cloaked in dark leather armor, a dagger strapped to her hip and an air of unshakable confidence about her.

Nyx had arrived.

She strode forward, chin high, gaze locked onto Lucian with an exasperated edge. “Your Majesty,” she greeted, offering a crisp bow before glancing around, her eyes briefly landing on Zagan and me. I was fully prepared to pretend I had no idea who she was, but she beat me to it.

“I didn’t know where he was,” Nyx stated flatly, as though defending herself before she could even be accused. “I searched for him daily, and it made me sick. I might as well be chasing the wind.”

Lucian raised a brow, clearly amused. “Oh? And yet here you are.”

Nyx huffed. “It is my duty to observe the movements within the city, not to track down a king who refuses to be found.” She turned her attention to us, her dark eyes narrowing slightly. “Speaking of movements—His Majesty should know that these two trespassed into Valtara without an entry pass.”

I nearly choked on air. Oh, lovely. Now she's playing hero.

Nyx continued without remorse. “Though it was quite evident they were of high ranking, I played along to assess their motives.”

Lucian leaned back against his throne, tapping his fingers on the armrest, before flashing a smirk. “Nyx, you must be forgetting something very important.”

Nyx blinked, waiting.

“You’re speaking to my future wife,” he said smoothly, gesturing grandly towards me. “That is the future Queen of Valtara. Show some respect.”

My eyes widened in horror. My future what?

Nyx’s expression didn’t change, but the way she slowly turned to me with that piercing gaze sent a shiver up my spine. And then, to my complete and utter shock, she kneeled before me.

“I apologize for my rudeness,” she said solemnly. “From this day forward, I will serve under your command and protect you with my life. Consider it my gratitude for saving me in the arena.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it, my brain short-circuiting. What. Just. Happened.

Lucian chuckled. “See? She knows a good queen when she sees one.”

“Wh—” I sputtered. “I—”

Before I could fully process, Lucian clapped his hands, drawing attention back to him. “Additionally, I am assigning another loyal guard for your protection.” He gestured towards the entrance, where a mountain of a man stepped forward. He was clad in heavy knight’s armor, his sheer size alone making it seem like he could crush a man’s skull with a flick of his wrist. A deep scar marred his chin, and his presence alone commanded respect—or fear. Likely both.

Lucian smirked at my reaction. “I assure you, he is more than capable. The only one I can offer while I am away.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Offer? You don’t need to offer anything.”

“But of course I do.” He leaned forward, his grin widening. “I need my future queen to be safe.”

From the side, Zagan let out a quiet scoff, his golden eyes gleaming with dry amusement. “You sure are confident in declaring her queen,” he mused, his voice a low drawl, “when she desires someone else.”

I inhaled sharply. My heart skipped. My gaze snapped to him. What did he just—

Who was he referring to? Lysander? Or—

No. No, it couldn’t be him. Right?

Before I could demand an explanation, the sound of weapons clashing drew my focus back to reality. The arena was alive with roaring spectators as Zagan and Lucian stood across from each other, blades drawn, muscles tense. The battle had begun.

Nyx leaned closer to me, arms crossed. “It looks to me that both men are fighting for you.”

I groaned internally. Oh, for heaven’s sake.

The fight was unlike any I’d ever seen. No magic was allowed, which meant it was purely skill against skill. Lucian fought with the finesse of a seasoned warrior, his strikes quick, precise, and backed by years of battle. Zagan, on the other hand, was a force of nature—every move calculated, every defense flawless, his overwhelming presence dominating the field.

Sitting beside me, King Vaelion watched with an amused glint in his eyes. “My bet is on Zagan.”

I turned to him, lips pressing into a thin line. I hesitated before finally speaking. “Why did you send him away?”

The king’s gaze darkened. “I made a mistake. And I am making it right.”

My fingers curled around my skirt. “If it was his magic, it no longer holds weight, does it?”

King Vaelion exhaled, leaning forward. “I knew what the queen wanted the moment she married me.”

Queen Adrielle. Lysander’s and Circe’s mother. The realization hit me like a storm.

“There is more truth than meets the eye,” he murmured.

A chill ran down my spine. What did he mean?

Before I could question him further, he studied me with sharp scrutiny. “And what exactly are you doing here, my dear?” His tone was light, but the weight of his words was heavy. “With my son, no less.”

I swallowed. “I ended my engagement to Lysander, Your Majesty.”

For a moment, he seemed taken aback before he chuckled, shaking his head. “Is that so? And was there something you didn’t like about Lysander? Or would you prefer both my sons?”

I nearly choked. “Your Majesty—that’s not—!”

He laughed heartily, but it faded when he caught my troubled expression. “I witnessed my death,” I admitted softly.

His demeanor shifted instantly. “And what did you see?”

I hesitated. “Everyone I trusted… betrayed me.”

The amusement in his eyes vanished. Slowly, he rose to his feet, as though the weight of my words carried a truth he already suspected. “You have a gift, my dear. You are Elena’s daughter, after all.”

I stiffened. My mother.

The king’s gaze held mine with knowing depth. “You are the rightful heir to the throne. Your mother was the last princess of Lysmere—Celestia, as it is now called. Had it not been lost to the skies, the council would have placed their votes on you the moment I was deemed ‘incapable.’ Or so Queen Adrielle has been whispering in their ears.”

My heart pounded. “What are you planning, Your Majesty?”

He smiled. “My plan is to make my son, Zagan, the King of Alazne.”

Third Person POV

Thalia’s breath caught in her throat as her eyes flicked away from the blonde-haired King Vaelion, his voice still echoing in her ears. Something had shifted in the atmosphere—something raw and thunderous that pulled her gaze across the grand coliseum.

It started.

Two men. Not merely warriors—no, never that. Titans, born to rule.

On the far end of the stone-clad arena, Zagan stood like a jagged shadow forged in fire. His obsidian armor bore fresh scratches, and his unbound raven hair moved like ink in the wind. He was still. Cold. Like a blade moments before the kill. The High Commandant of Noctharow. The Banished Prince of Alazne. Feared. Honed. Hardened by endless bloodshed along the Celestian frontlines.

Across from him, a flame.

Lucian, Phoenix King of Valtara, rolled his shoulders with the languid grace of a serpent. His crimson cape fanned like wings, gold embroidery flickering under the sunlight. His blade glimmered—a beautifully curved saber made for flourish and finesse, not brute destruction. He wore confidence like a crown, an easy smirk playing on his lips, his flaring eyes sparkling not with arrogance but certainty.

King Vaelion’s voice faded from her mind completely.

The crowd roared. But Thalia heard only her heartbeat. She clutched the edge of her seat.

This wasn’t a duel.

This was a clash of kingdoms.

Of philosophies.

Of men who had tasted blood, power, and ambition in unequal measures.

The clash began with silence.

Then steel sang.

Lucian struck first—a testing blow, precise and elegant. Zagan parried with a grunt, his broadsword shrieking as it met the saber’s kiss. There was no time to breathe. Lucian spun, using his footwork like a dancer, agile, deceptive.

Zagan didn’t dance.

He advanced.

Like a storm. Like vengeance embodied.

Their weapons collided again, Zagan pushing forward with brutal strikes that forced Lucian to backpedal, defending rather than attacking.

“I thought Valtara raised kings,” Zagan said, voice like gravel over bone. “Not jesters.”

Lucian’s smile widened. “Is that what this is? An attempt at courtship through mockery? You wound me, Prince.”

“I’m not here for a woman,” Zagan growled, blade twisting dangerously close to Lucian’s throat. “I want to test if you are a capable king.”

Lucian blocked and kicked off the ground, flipping backwards to gain distance. “Yet I find your face rather telling. You wear denial poorly, Zagan.”

Thalia gripped the rail tighter.

The air between them rippled with tension—heat from Lucian’s movements, fury from Zagan’s strikes. Each blow Lucian delivered was clever, calculated, dodging where others would parry. He was reading Zagan like a book, and it showed in the infuriated twitch of the latter’s brow.

“She is not a prize,” Zagan spat, slashing downward with such force that it cracked the stone under Lucian’s boots.

“No,” Lucian agreed smoothly, sidestepping. “She is a force. One you fear.”

Zagan lunged.

Lucian ducked and twisted, dragging his saber along the length of Zagan’s sword arm, drawing the first blood.

Thalia flinched.

“I fear no one,” Zagan hissed, his tone venomous.

“But you fear change,” Lucian said quietly, “and you fear peace. That much is written in your bloodlust.”

The crowd had gone silent. Even the nobles seemed to hold their breath.

The battle drew on—minutes felt like hours. Dust and sweat, blood and iron. Zagan’s relentless assault left cracks in the stone floor, while Lucian’s evasive mastery painted arcs in the air. They fought like gods.

And gods, Thalia realized, could fall.

Zagan feinted—a rare move—and Lucian, for the first time, misstepped. Zagan’s blade came down like judgment, slicing through Lucian’s shoulder pauldron and slamming him to the ground.

Thalia stood.

Lucian looked up, chest heaving. “Well struck.”

Zagan raised his sword. “Yield.”

“Never.”

Zagan paused.

Something in him halted.

Lucian stared at him, not with fear—but pity. “You think victory lies in ashes. That peace is forged in fire.”

Zagan’s hand trembled. Thalia saw it. Barely. But it was there.

Lucian continued, blood staining his side. “I’ve welcomed anyone into Valtara. The ones who sought refuge. The ones who surrendered their war. Mercy can be for anyone who's willing to change. Loyalty is earned.”

“You fool,” Zagan whispered.

“Foolish?” Lucian chuckled. “Peace is bartered, not broken into submission.”

Zagan’s sword hovered.

“You don’t fight because of me,” Lucian said, voice softer now. “You fight because you’ve forgotten who you are without war.”

Zagan gritted his teeth. “I remember everything.”

“But do you remember how to choose something—someone—for yourself?”

Lucian tilted his head subtly toward the royal dais. Toward Thalia.

Zagan looked at her.

Just for a second.

And then—he stepped back.

The crowd gasped.

Lucian slowly stood, blade still in hand. “I would’ve liked to know who she chooses, one day. Freely. Not as a prize, but as a queen might choose her king.”

Zagan turned his back.

“Next time you swing at me,” Lucian added with a grin, “try not to hesitate, Prince.”

Zagan walked toward the edge of the arena, his expression unreadable.