The grand hall of House Aedryn was alive with light and laughter, but Lady Elara felt like a shadow amidst the splendour. Chandeliers of wrought iron glimmered with candlelight, their warm glow spilling over tables laden with exotic fruits, roasted meats, and golden goblets of wine. Courtiers swirled in vibrant silks, their voices a symphony of gossip and laughter. But Elara, seated at the edge of the celebration, clutched her goblet like a lifeline, her emerald eyes scanning the crowd for reprieve.

“Elara, darling,” her mother’s voice was honeyed but firm, drawing her attention. Lady Aveline, the matriarch of House Aedryn, radiated elegance in her crimson gown, every thread woven with power and ambition. “Lord Harran has been kind enough to inquire about your hand in the next dance. Do oblige him.”

Elara forced a polite smile and rose, smoothing her sapphire gown. Lord Harran, a portly man twice her age, approached with a toothy grin. His hand extended, and though every fibre of her being screamed to flee, Elara curtsied and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor.

The dance began, a swirling rhythm of steps and turns. Elara moved mechanically, her mind drifting far from the hall. She longed for the quiet of the library, where she could lose herself in ancient tomes and escape the relentless expectations of court life. As Lord Harran prattled on about his lands and wealth, she felt the first stirrings of her magic—a faint hum in her chest, warning her of a shift in the room.

Her gift, the ability to sense magical auras, was both a blessing and a burden. Tonight, it whispered of something unusual, something… dark.

The music faltered, and the hall’s lively chatter hushed. A messenger had entered, his cloak dusted with snow and his expression grim. He strode to Elara’s father, Lord Cedric, and handed him a sealed parchment. The lord’s face darkened as he read, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

“Summon Lady Elara to my chambers immediately.”

Whispers erupted as Elara, her heart pounding, excused herself and followed her father from the hall. The corridors of Aedryn Manor were cold and quiet, the flickering torchlight casting eerie shadows. Inside her father’s study, the air was thick with tension. Lord Cedric stood by the hearth, the parchment in his hands trembling slightly.

“Father, what is it?” Elara asked, her voice steady despite the unease curling in her stomach.

He turned to her, his gaze heavy with resignation. “You are to be wed, Elara. To Duke Kael Raventhorn.”

Elara’s breath caught. The name was a whisper of legend and fear. Duke Raventhorn, lord of the northern reaches, was said to be a man of shadows, his estate a fortress steeped in sorcery and secrets. The rumours of his cursed bloodline were enough to chill the bravest heart.

“I will not,” she said, her voice rising. “I will not be bartered like a coin!”

Lord Cedric’s expression hardened. “This is not a request. Our house is on the brink of ruin. This alliance with Raventhorn will secure our survival.”

“At what cost?” she demanded. “Do you know what they say about him?”

“I know,” her father said, his tone softening. “But I also know that survival sometimes demands sacrifice. You are our only hope, Elara.”

She turned away, her fists clenched as tears threatened to spill. The weight of duty pressed down on her shoulders, crushing the dreams she’d nurtured in secret. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire.

“When?” she asked finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You leave for Raventhorn at dawn.”