The King of Ravaryn thought real carefully what do you with her. He could kill her. A simple, clean solution. A dead princess is no threat. He could marry her off to some minor lord, a way to pacify the remnants of the Astorian nobility. Or...
He looked at her again, at the quiet dignity in her posture, at the defiance that still flickered in the depths of her eyes despite her silence. She was more than a prize. She was a symbol and symbols could be dangerous or useful depending how they are used. A thought flickered through his head maybe marrying her to Claude wouldnt be a terrible idea. The union would give Ravaryn an undeniable claim over Astoria's lands, a claim forged in blood and sealed by a legitimate union.
He looked at Claude, who stood rigid, his face a mask of impassivity.
But his father never could read him. Claude has always been difficult to control. He only knows how to fight ruthlessly. If he could tie him down he would have finally put a leash on him and marrying him to this girl would do that and he would have claim over Astoria's lands.
The girl he had pulled from a dungeon was being turned into a political pawn.
"Claude, I have decided that you will take her as your wife."
He was a soldier, a general. He was the "Mad Dog." He was not a husband. He was not a prince consort for a fallen fairy princess.
"Your Majesty," he said, his voice neutral. "May I be permitted a word?"
The King waved a dismissive hand. "Your words have won me a new territory. They will not unmake this decision. It is a good one. A strong one. It secures the west and secures your loyalty. You will marry her. The ceremony will be in a fortnight. Until then, she will be confined to her chambers."
He looked at Elowen, who had not moved a muscle throughout the entire exchange.
The King gestured for the guards.
"Take her to the eastern tower. The Rose Chamber. No one is to see her. No one is to speak to her. She will have food, water, and anything she requires to prepare for the wedding. But she will not leave that room."
Elowens thoughts we're running wild. Marriage. To him. He was the son of the man who had just decided her fate with a flick of his wrist.
The world swam before her eyes.
The King turned and walked back towards the keep, his business with her concluded.
Claude stood frozen for a moment, a statue carved from indifference . Then he moved. He strode to her, his face unreadable.
"Marriage?..."
he muttered under his breath.
Claude never had any plans for marriage. He had been raised to be a weapon, a tool of the crown. His life was one of campaigns, strategy, and the cold comfort of a soldier's victory. A wife was a weakness. A princess of a conquered land was a liability. He looked at her, at the wide, unblinking blue eyes, and felt a surge of something that was dangerously close to panic. He, who had never feared an army, who had stared down death on a dozen battlefields, was terrified by this quiet, silent girl.
But he was also a son. And a general. And he did not disobey a direct order from his king.
He gestured to the guards.
The guards hesitated, looking from Claude's hard face to the King's retreating back.
"Take her to the Rose Chamber..."
Claude still processing what had happened.
They moved, taking her arms again. This time, their touch was different. Not rough, but… awestruck. They were not just escorting a prisoner; they were handling a future princess. A general's wife.
As they led her away, towards a new kind of prison, one of gilded bars and silken chains, Elowen glanced back one last time.
Claude was staring up at the grey, unforgiving sky of Ravaryn. He looked like a man caught in a trap he had set for himself.
The eastern tower was as cold and imposing as the rest of the castle, but the stones were cleaner, the corridors wider. The guards led her to a set of heavy oak doors, intricately carved with the three-headed wolf of Ravaryn. They pushed them open and ushered her inside.
The room was breathtakingly large. A massive four-poster bed dominated one wall, its curtains made of a deep crimson velvet. A fire crackled in a grand hearth, chasing away the damp chill. There were tapestries on the walls depicting great battles and hunts, the figures rendered in muted, severe colors. A large, arched window looked out over the sprawling, grey city.
It was a prison more luxurious than any she had ever known, and it was just as inescapable.
A middle-aged woman with a severe bun and a plain grey dress stepped forward from the shadows and curtsied.
"My lady. I am Maude. I am to be your maid."
Elowen simply stood, the cloak still clutched around her shoulders, the last remnant of her anonymity.
Maude's expression was not unkind, but it was weary and pragmatic. She gestured towards a screened-off corner of the room. "There is a bath drawn for you, my lady. His Majesty's orders."
She paused, her gaze dropping slightly.
"General De Valois' orders."
The mention of his name sent a strange tremor through her.
Maude bustled over, her hands surprisingly gentle as she helped Elowen out of the rough traveling clothes. They were discarded without a thought. Elowen was lowered into the steaming water, and the heat was a profound shock to her system. It seeped into her bones, into the very marrow of her, and for the first time, she felt the deep, aching chill of the dungeon begin to recede.
She washed herself mechanically, her movements stiff and unfamiliar. Maude handed her scented soaps and soft cloths, working silently to undo the intricate braid in her hair until the golden strands floated around her like seaweed in the water.
When she was finally clean, she was wrapped in a robe of the same deep crimson as the bed curtains. Maude led her to a looking glass.
Elowen stared.
The girl in the glass was a stranger.
Maude dressed her in a beautiful simple white silk gown, leaving her hair loose.
She was truly like a fairy, even Maude stared captivated by her.
"You are truly beautiful my lady... his highness will surely be surprised how much you have changed after a little cleaning" Elowen flinched at her words, She didn't want to be beautiful. Beauty was a curse. It had been her mother's pride, her kingdom's legend, and her downfall.
Dinner was served on a small table by the fire. Roasted pheasant, new potatoes, rich gravy. The smell was intoxicating, but it only turned her stomach. She sat in the high-backed chair, staring at the food as Maude fussed around her.
"My lady, you must eat," Maude urged softly. "You are… unwell."
Elowen didn't move. To eat was to accept this new life. To fuel this body that was no longer her own.
Maude sighed, a sound of weary frustration. She left the food on the table and began to turn down the bed, her movements efficient and practiced.
Down in the war room, Claude stood before a massive table, a map of the western territories spread out before him. His father, the King, sat at the head of the table, his fingers steepled.
"The lords of the former Astorian provinces are restless,"
the King said, his tone conversational.
"They swear fealty, but their hearts are not in it. They need a symbol. A unifier."
"Symbol,"
Claude repeated, the word tasting like ash in his mouth.
"You will give them one. Your wedding to the Astorian princess will be more than a union. It will be a proclamation. A message that the past is not erased, but… absorbed. Integrated. House De Valois will be their new house."
Claude's jaw worked. He was a soldier. He secured borders. He didn't play these games.
"Her name is Elowen,"
Claude said, the words sharper than he intended.
The King's eyes narrowed.
"Do not become attached to her, my son. She is a key to a kingdom. Remember that. She is a beautiful tool. Use her as such."
Claude said nothing. His gaze fell upon the map, on the small, star-shaped symbol of Astoria's capital, now crossed out in red ink. He thought of her in the tower, a wild creature caged in gilded splendor. He thought of the way her name looked on the parchment, the shaky letters of a desperate soul.
"She has not spoken,"
Claude found himself saying.
"Not a word."
"A silent princess is a compliant princess," the King replied with a dismissive wave.
"See that she remains so."
Claude excused himself not long after, the King's words echoing in his ears.
He found himself climbing the stairs to the eastern tower, drawn by a force he couldn't name. He pushed open the heavy oak door without knocking.
Maude jumped to her feet, her face paling. "General!"
Claude ignored her.
His eyes went to the window, where a slip of a figure in white stood, her back to him, a waterfall of golden hair cascading down her spine.
"Leave us," he commanded.
Maude curtsied and fled, closing the door with a soft thud.
The fire crackled. Claude walked further into the room. He could see the untouched dinner. He could see the tension in the set of her shoulders.
He stopped a few feet behind her.
"You should eat," he said.
Elowen flinched but did not turn.
Claude's gaze fell upon the small writing desk. He walked over to it. The charcoal stick and parchment were still there, along with a small, ornate inkpot and a quill he must have had sent up.
My father commands our marriage.
He held it out.
Slowly, she turned. Her eyes, those impossible blue eyes, went from his face to the parchment. Claude froze for just a moment as she turned fully towards him. He had seen her on the road, swaddled in dirt and fear. He had seen her by moonlight, a pale waif by the stream. He had seen her as a political problem, a silent burden. But he had not seen this.
The transformation was staggering.
The clean white gown, simple as it was, seemed to absorb the firelight, glowing against her translucent skin. Her face, free of grime and sorrow, was a sculpted masterpiece of delicate lines and haunting beauty. But it was the hair. It was no longer just golden; it was a living, breathing entity, a cascade of pure light that framed her face and fell to her waist. She was not of Ravaryn. She was not of this world of stone and steel. She was the sun he had not seen since leaving the south.
The thought of her being his wife—of touching that hair, of seeing that face across from him at the table every morning—was no longer just a political burden. It was something else. Something intimate and deeply, profoundly unsettling. The "Mad Dog" of Ravaryn, who felt more at home on a blood-soaked field than in a palace, was to be tethered to this… celestial being.
He held the parchment steady, forcing the thought aside, crushing it under the weight of duty.
Elowen stared at the words. Our marriage. Her breath hitched, a small, audible sound. Her hand trembled as she reached for the quill.
She wrote back, her letters still shaky but more determined than before.
I am a tool. A key.
Claude read her words. He had expected fear, denial, perhaps pleading. He had not expected this. This sharp, bitter understanding. She saw the board as clearly as he did.
He wrote again.
It is an order. I cannot refuse.
Her reply was swift.
And I cannot run.
The finality of it hung in the air between them, a shared sentence passed on them both. They were two pawns, moved by a king's will, trapped on the same square of the board. In that moment, a flicker of something new sparked between them—not alliance, not affection, but a grim, shared understanding. They were both prisoners of this union.
Claude's fingers tightened on the quill. He felt the absurd, irrational urge to write something else. Something not about duty or kingdoms. He wanted to ask her what she saw from that window. He wanted to know the last thing she remembered that made her happy. He suddenly wanted to know more about her.