Chapter Text
Your breath tears from your lungs in jagged bursts as you race down the forest path, the hem of your gown a dead weight through the mud and gravel. Branches lash against your arms and face, your hands raised to shield yourself as you plunge through the darkness. Behind you, the faint glow of torches dances, a flickering reminder that they’re closing in.
You don’t dare look back. You can’t.
Your vision blurs, the shadows of trees and jagged outlines of the path melting into one oppressive void. Yet instinct screams louder than exhaustion- faster. But before you can obey, a force slams into you from the side.
The air is driven from your lungs as you crash into the underbrush, tangled in limbs and thorns. You lash out blindly, fists connecting with something solid- a chest guarded in leather- but the resistance only tightens. A strong arm hooks around your waist, and before you can claw free, you’re yanked upright and shoved against a rough, unyielding wall.
“Shut up, kid,” a voice growls, low and sharp. A hand, calloused and firm, clamps over your mouth. “I’m trying to keep your bratty ass alive.”
Your assailant presses themself towards you, body trapping you against a brick wall in the darkness. As you feel the pressure against your chest, against the folds of your ballgown, you inhale, trying to put space between the two of you.
Faint hues of peppermint and linen waft to your senses. Realizing, you relax slightly against the wall, letting your arms fall in submission.
He pulls back slightly, but does not dare to loosen his grip on your mouth.
Face inches from yours, he blinks, eyebrows lowered over his narrow eyes in a disapproving glare.
Slate grey eyes, stormy, glint in the moonlight.
Your eyes snap open, your breath catching as you sit upright. You blink against the disorienting pull of reality as you awaken abruptly.
You come to your senses. The carriage rocks steadily beneath you, its rhythmic sway lulling your horses forward on the gravel path. The journey continues uninterrupted, the same ceaseless motion that has carried you for nearly a week. You have no idea how many days remain, only that the end feels both too far and too close.
With a measured exhale, you sink back into the lush embrace of the red velvet seat. Though the cushions are soft, your thoughts are anything but.
It’s the third time this week. The same dream- the one that has vividly evoked your senses in a way no dream has ever before.
You can still feel it. The rough scrape of brick against your back. The frantic rhythm of your heartbeat, echoing in your chest and through your throat. Those storm-grey eyes, sharp and unyielding, their keeper’s face still cloaked in shadow. And faint but unshakable, the lingering scent of the linen and peppermint blend.
You shake your head and rub your eyes, trying to dispel the weight clinging to you. Sleep has been fleeting, shredded by anticipation and unease for your coming ordeal.
Ordeal seems like an understatement, you think to yourself.
Pulling back the thick velvet curtain of the carriage window, you let the light flood in. Outside, sprawling fields stretch endlessly, their grassy waves bending to the breeze under a sky painted in vivid blue. Fluffy clouds drift lazily, kissed by the sun’s golden rays, and wildflowers dot the grassy carpet with splashes of pastel colours. The scene is idyllic, a mirage of peace, but it doesn’t ease the tension coiled in your chest.
This weather, these fertile fields- they’re a clear sign. You’re nearing the Central Kingdom of the Aereidnan Realm.
The journey has been long, tedious, and lonely. No escort. No farewell. Barely even a passing word from your family. Unbreakable binds, they’ve always said. Yet no one from House Marley of the Southern Kingdom had the decency to escort you off, not even as a Lady of the Royal Family.
Still, the trip pales in comparison to the preparation it took to get here. Here . Where everything your House has worked for for decades hinges on your success.
This is your life. Your purpose. The reason you exist.
The Crown Prince of the Aereidnan Realm, Eren Jaeger, heir to the House that rules the Central Kingdom, has come of age. To ascend the throne, he must follow tradition and select a wife.
A new Courtment will begin.
From the four outer kingdoms, three ladies of noble birth have been chosen to compete. Twelve contenders, yourself included, will vie for his favor, but only one will stand beside him as queen. It’s been almost fifty years since the last, and now the realm awaits with anticipation.
You drop the curtain, letting the light vanish as you retreat once more into the shadows of the carriage.
Twelve contenders. Eleven losers. And one victor.
It will be you. It has to be. It’s what you’ve been raised for, what you’ve dedicated your life to.
Once you’ve captured Eren’s attention, stolen his heart, and secured your place as queen, you’ll do what you were born to do.
You’ll kill him.
You’ll kill him, and as the realm fractures beneath the weight of his death, your House- House Marley- will rise after decades of resentment, of waiting, of planning.
Political chaos will pave the way for victory, and the throne of Aereidna will finally belong to them.
The Southern King and Queen, the royal family who took you in when you had nothing, have placed their faith in you. They’ve raised you, trained you, molded you into the weapon they needed, and gifted you this mission. Their trust is absolute, and soon, they will rule this fractured realm, and you will be the reason for their triumph.
You’ve never been overly close to them- the King and Queen, nor their daughters, the blood-bound heirs to the Marley throne you've learned to call sisters- but they’re the only family you have, the only people who saved you when the world had cast you aside to toil in the military. For that, you owe them. Everything you are, and everything you will become, belongs to them.
The carriage sways beneath you, its rocking unrelenting as it rolls over the gravel road. A blade of sunlight cuts through the narrow gap in the velvet curtains, slicing into the dim interior. The colors of House Marley surround you, a sea of crimson and gold. Velvet cushions match the heavy curtains that frame the windows, while the carriage roof glitters with deep red silken drapes and jeweled accents. The carved wooden pillars gleam faintly, encrusted with ruby gems that catch the shifting light.
You smooth the skirts of your gown, also Marley’s colors, and feel the weight of the ruby necklace around your throat, its cold touch a stark reminder of your homeland. You are a perfect reflection of your House, adorned in its pride and ambition.
It’s expected of you- winning the Courtment, securing Prince Eren’s favor, joining House Jaeger- it’s all been planned, every step calculated. Yet, as you consider what lies ahead, a flicker of hesitation breaks through. The thought of leaving behind everything you’ve ever known, of leaving behind House Marley, to stand among strangers as one of them, brings a strange, hollow pause.
But it doesn’t linger.
This is temporary. Once you’ve captured his trust, his heart- once you’ve secured your position- it will all be over. You’ll kill him. And everything else will fall into place.
Allowing your head to fall back against the velvet cushion at your back, you relax into your seat, eased by reminders of your rigorous, meticulous preparation and training. You let your eyes close once more, and split quickly into a dreamless sleep.
The carriage jolts to a halt, its abrupt stillness jerking you awake. Your eyes snap open, unfocused for a moment, before you blink rapidly to clear the haze of sleep.
Outside, sounds of muffled voices and bells tolling echo faintly.
You’ve arrived in the Central Kingdom.
Pursing your jaw, you sit up, straightening your posture, and smoothing your gown. With a measured breath, you tug the velvet curtain aside, revealing the view beyond.
The towering gates of the Jaeger Palace rise behind you, imposing in their magnitude. Glittering gold, wrought into intricate spirals and crests, gleams under the afternoon sun.
Before you, the castle gleams- a vision of pale stone, shimmering glass, and intricate gold detailing, its spires crowned with the green and gold pennants that mark the colours of House Jaeger. The wide pathway leading to the entrance is bordered by manicured hedges and bursts of golden flowers, their colors almost unnaturally vivid. Its beauty and light are evident, a reflection of the kingdom’s power and grandeur, yet to you, something about it feels too perfect, too precise- a stage set, waiting for a crimson curtain to fall.
Despite the light breeze casting ripples through the green and gold banners lining the road, the air feels heavier here, charged with a gravity that settles deep in your chest. This is the seat of power: the heart of the Aereidnan Realm, where history is forged and bloodlines battle. This is the throne your House will one day conquer.
Hearing a set of footsteps approaching your door, you take a breath and steel yourself, the corners of your lips turning up into a court-trained smile.
A servant liveried in a green tunic appears at the carriage door, bowing low before opening it. “Lady Reader, welcome to the Central Kingdom.” His voice is smooth, rehearsed. You offer a nod and small smile in response as he starts towards the palace doors.
You gather your crimson skirts, stepping into the bright sunlight after the servant. The first thing you notice is the scent- freshly trimmed grass mingled with the faint polish of leather- a sharp contrast to the metallic tang of armor and rain-felled stone that defines the South. As your feet find their balance on the uneven cobblestone, the sound of excited chatter rises, a low hum swelling into a buzz.
Behind you, beyond the towering palace gates, the gathered citizens of the Central Kingdom press forward, eager for a glimpse of the contenders arriving at the palace. Eager for a glimpse of their future queen. You hesitate only a moment, calculating. This is your moment- a first impression.
Turning from the servant, you step deliberately around the carriage, placing yourself in view of the crowd. A smile graces your lips, polished and serene, as you lift your gloved hand in a graceful wave. The reaction is immediate- gasps and murmurs ripple through the gathered throng, heads leaning toward one another as whispers flare to life. The crowd is larger than you’d anticipated. Men, women, and children alike, faces flushed with the warmth of the sun and their excitement, pack tightly together along the edge of the gates. Some clutch flowers, others wave green and gold ribbons, but their focus is singular.
“Red and gold.”
“Southern Kingdom.”
The words drift toward you, soft but clear. You hold your head high, the rubies at your neck catching the light as you draw yourself to your full height, a breathing banner of your homeland’s pride. Every step, every glance, is deliberate, designed to burn this moment into their minds.
Let them see you. Let them remember.
You stand in their gaze for another moment, before turning on your heel and starting after the servant. Pulling away from the carriage - your final reminder of House Marley in this new space- the towering palace doors yawn open, revealing the grand entrance hall of House Jaeger’s castle.
It’s a green and golden flurry of movement; courtiers, nobles, and servants bustle about, their robes a riot of colors, but all bearing at least one article in the deep green that appears on every banner, every decoration, every wall. Chatter rises and falls in a symphony of clipped accents, each tone sharp with curiosity and veiled judgment as their gazes flick to you.
As you step forward across the threshold of the palace entrance, the movement draws to a still. You feel the eyes, the silent assessments, and lift your chin. Each step you take is measured, deliberate, echoing faintly against the polished marble floor as your crimson skirts brush the gold plating. As you reach the center of the entrance foyer, a steward steps forward, his thin, wiry frame cloaked in a dull green tunic.
“Princess Reader Marley, House Marley of the Southern Kingdom,” he announces loudly enough for the hall to hear, voice echoing off the high vaulted ceiling. At the title of princess and your house, all heads turn, whispers rippling through the crowd. From your understanding, it isn’t unusual for a Princess to attend the Courtment- on the contrary, it’s often preferred if she falls around the appropriate age. However, given the abundance of qualified noblewomen and daughters from affluent or influential families within the Court of each House, they are typically the ones selected to compete.
You don’t falter. If anything, the attention gives you an edge - an edge that will become your blade against House Jaeger. You stand tall.
This is your stage, the first of many. You are not just a contender; you are the contender.
You hold the gaze of each set of eyes you meet. Not threatening, but farther from meek. Lips curving upward in a small smile, your gloved hands find your skirts, and you bend your knees, sinking into a deep curtsy towards the Jaeger Court. Straightening back up, you offer a nod to the onlookers, who watch in rapt fascination.
In front of you, the steward gestures towards an archway and hallway off to the side of the grand foyer. “Allow me to escort you to your quarters, my lady. Preparations for the opening banquet are underway.”
You incline your head, offering another smile. The murmurs and movement of the grand hall fade behind you, swallowed by the quiet embrace of the corridor. Here, the world feels smaller, intimate, the grandiosity of Jaeger Palace distilled into a softer, more familiar rhythm. The weight of watchful eyes and whispered judgments slips from your shoulders, leaving you lighter, freer, but not at less ease.
The corridor is narrower, yet no less opulent than the grand foyer. Walls of warm, honeyed stone rise on either side, their surfaces kissed by the faint gleam of gold accents that catch the light spilling through the arched windows. The glass stretches high, framing vivid scenes of the gardens beyond- greenery spilling across trellises, bursts of flowers catching the golden hour’s glow, the faint sway of leaves in a breeze you cannot hear but can almost feel.
The floor beneath your feet gleams like polished amber, its surface dappled with light and shadow from the sun’s descent. Tapestries hang at measured intervals, their intricate patterns worked in shades of green and gold that breathe life into the palace’s identity. They shift slightly in the breeze that threads its way through the halls, as though even the air here carries an elegance born of centuries. You make note to examine the woven scenes in detail at a later date.
“The guest wing is ahead,” the steward says, after several minutes of walking. His steps are purposeful but unhurried, allowing you to take in the details that whisper stories of House Jaeger’s lineage, power, and pride.
Though not is all as it seems. Not always has House Jaeger ruled here, atop the golden throne.
At last, the corridor opens into a large circular room with countless hallways branching off from it. As the steward makes his way through the center of the room, and takes the second hallway to the left, you realize you’ve entered the guest wing, where the other ladies must be staying as well. You haven’t seen any of them yet, presumably you’re all arriving at different times, but you’re sure you’ll have plenty of time to acquaint yourself later- as if that will change anything to do with the outcome of this Courtment.
Finally, the steward stops in front of the furthest alcove down the hallway. A tall, heavy door waits, its surface adorned with fine golden carvings. The steward turns to you, his hand resting lightly on the ornate handle.
“Your quarters, my lady. You will find every comfort within. Should you require anything, simply ring the bell at the door. Your maid is already in attendance.”
You step closer, your gaze lingering for a moment on the play of light against the carved door. To you, it feels like a threshold- not just into a room, but into something you can only begin to sense- your quest has begun. When you look back at the steward, he is waiting, hand still on the handle. You nod, and the door swings open.
The first thing your eyes catch are the towering arched windows. They stretch from floor to ceiling, framed by light green curtains that flutter inward with the breeze, their delicate ends catching the sunlight as it spills into the room. The filtered light bathes the polished wooden floor in a soft, pale green glow, shifting gently with the movement of the curtains. The effect is ethereal, as if the chamber breathes with the rhythm of the kingdom of light outside.
The room itself is vast, circular, with a canopy bed set against the right wall. Its drapes, sheer and pale, ripple slightly in the draft, casting fleeting shadows against the gleaming wood. Opposite the bed, the bathroom opens into the main chamber, separated only by a series of tall, fluted pillars. Their golden accents glint faintly in the filtered light, lending a sense of quiet opulence. The airiness of the space, its brightness, feels almost otherworldly- so unlike the dark stone walls and tinted glass of the Southern Kingdom, where light was scarce, and shadows reigned throughout the halls.
You inhale deeply, filling your lungs with the scent carried on the breeze- fresh grass, wild pollen, and a faint trace of leather. For now, it remains unfamiliar, but you’re sure you’ll adjust. You’ll have to. This will be your home now, at least for as long as it takes. Once House Marley takes the throne, small, foreign details like scents will fade into insignificance.
Turning back toward the entrance, you offer a polite nod to the steward. He bows quickly, murmuring an acknowledgment before retreating through the heavy door, likely hurrying to greet the next arrival. The echo of his steps fades into the quiet, and as the door swings shut behind him, another figure steps forward from her position beside the entryway.
She emerges silently, her plain servant gown of muted green brushing the floor as she moves. The fabric, though simple, is neatly pressed, its edges starched with precision. Her brown hair, streaked with threads of gray, is pulled back into a low ponytail, strands escaping to frame her round face. Faint wrinkles crease her skin, marking her years, but her eyes- sharp and vivid- betray a spark of intelligence and caution.
“Maid Kirstein, Lady Marley,” she says, her voice steady and practiced. The bow she offers is shallow, more formality than genuine deference. “I am here to attend you for the duration of the Courtment.”
You study her for a moment, noting the tightness in her posture, the flicker of something beneath her otherwise composed expression. Wariness. Of course she is. Why wouldn’t she be? You’re from the Southern Kingdom.
Inhaling deeply, you tilt your head, acknowledging her introduction. It is no secret that the kingdoms seldom look kindly upon outsiders. Nobility typically marries within their own, and no doubt the citizens of the Central Kingdom would prefer to see their Crown Prince betrothed to one of their own daughters. Even here, where unity is supposedly upheld through the Courtment, alliances are forged reluctantly, suspicion shadowing every gesture as war rages beyond the Central Kingdom. You would know.
It is the South- your home- that is feared more than most. They call your kingdom ruthless, cunning, as though the other Houses have not carved their power from blood and bone just the same. You expected the wariness. You expected the whispered doubts, the uneasy glances. They don't bother you. They won’t matter in the end.
You offer Maid Kirstein a faint smile, watching how her eyes narrow, flicking over you with a thinly veiled scrutiny that disappears only moments later.
“If you have no other business, I should suggest you prepare to greet the royal family,” Maid Kirstein gestures back toward the doors across the room, “they have been greeting the Ladies as they arrive. I can send for a steward at your request.”
You nod, moving to stand at the doorway. You suppose there will be time to explore later; you do not wish to keep your future betrothed waiting.
Standing before the largest set of ornate golden doors you’ve ever seen, you draw yourself up, squaring your shoulders as you take a steady breath.
The steward stands a few paces away, his thin frame rigid with protocol, expression expectant as he awaits your signal. Your lips press into a firm line as the faint prickle of nerves stirs in your chest. It’s strange- this hesitation. You’ve prepared for this moment for years, your entire life a symphony of lessons designed to ensure you’d know exactly how to play your part. And still, the flicker of unease lingers: an unwelcome shadow.
You raise your hand to smooth the ruby necklace at your throat. Its familiar weight is grounding, and your touch lingers. The crimson jewel gleams faintly in the golden light, a reflection of your house colors, your purpose, your unwavering resolve.
Your eyes shift downward, glancing over your shoulder to ensure the train of your crimson skirt is properly aligned, trailing elegantly across the polished marble floor. Everything must be flawless- every detail, every step, every breath. Your first impression is a weapon here, sharper than any blade for the time being.
Taking one final breath, you smooth the fabric at your waist and lift your chin, letting the tension fall from your shoulders. With a practiced movement, you shape your mouth into a delicate curve. It’s poised, refined, with just the faintest hint of wit glimmering in the corners of your lips. A smile that says you know the game and have every intention of winning it.
Your gaze meets the steward’s. Without a word, you nod. The moment stretches for a heartbeat, the weight of anticipation settling heavy in the air. Then, as the steward steps forward to pull open the grand doors, you take another breath, steady and sure.
This is your stage. And you are ready.
You feel a rumble at your feet as the doors bow open, and you’re hit with an onslaught of light.
“Princess Reader Marley, House Marley of the Southern Kingdom.” The steward’s voice echoes throughout the throne room.
As your eyes adjust to the flood of light, you keep your smile steady, though the brightness tempts you to shield your gaze. Instead, you focus forward, letting the magnificence of the room unfold. Towering arches rise in succession, each cradling a colossal window piercing towards the heavens. The glass stretches impossibly high, story upon story, framing the golden light that pours through and dances across the polished floor. Gilded pillars line each window, their surfaces a lattice of intricate designs, alive with the shimmer of green and golden jewels- testaments to House Jaeger’s boundless opulence.
Along the edges of the hall stand the royal guard, unmoving as statues, their armor of tempered steel and darkened leather catching the stray rays of sunlight. Leather harnesses cross their chests, and their green cloaks fall heavy against their backs, the fabric pooling at their heels. Hoods drawn low, they are faceless shadows, their silence as commanding as the vast room itself.
“Welcome, Lady Marley,” a voice calls, deep and resonant, unfurling from the farthest reaches of the hall. It pulls your attention, guiding your gaze to the thrones that rise at the room’s distant end.
The throne room is vast, a corridor of power and splendor. The length of the hall stretches before you, endless and daunting, reducing all who walk it to figures dwarfed by the enormity of the space. At the far end, the Royal Family awaits, their forms barely discernible against the brightness of the long-stretching hall.
You step forward, the whisper of your skirts brushing against the polished stone the only sound. Your hands gather the fabric as you walk, lifting it out of the way. Behind you, the steward exits, the sound of the great doors closing a low, reverberating sigh that settles into the bones of the hall.
For a moment, it feels as though the world has shrunk, leaving only you, the towering walls, the silent guards, and the thrones that beckon at the far end. The solitude presses in, a weight that might crush another, but not you. You carry it easily, as if you’ve always known this moment would come. As if you were born for it.
Your head lifts, your gaze unwavering. The thrones come into sharper focus as you approach. Two rise side by side, carved from stone and adorned with veins of gold, their edges softened by draped cloaks of deep green lined in golden detailing. Light filters over them, casting a regal glow on the figures seated there.
The King and Queen.
Their presence is undeniable, authority carved into their very bearing. Heavy crowns rest upon their heads, golden circlets alive with emeralds that glimmer with an ethereal brilliance. The King sits on the left, his hand outstretched in greeting, the source of the voice that called to you.
His face is drawn, his expression carefully measured, though his eyes betray a thinly-veiled scrutiny. King Jaeger’s features are sharp and commanding- high cheekbones, a strong jaw dusted with the faintest hint of shadow, and piercing grey eyes. His dark hair is slicked back, revealing the lines of his brow etched with years of rule. He is dressed in the unmistakable regalia of kingship: a deep green doublet embroidered with gold thread, and a heavy fur-lined cloak rests on his shoulders, its clasp a golden emblem of the Wings of House Jaeger, gleaming against the rich fabric.
Beside him, the Queen radiates warmth and poise, her smile a soft counterbalance to the King’s intensity. Queen Jaeger’s features are elegant yet gentle, her cheeks touched with the faintest flush. Her almond-shaped eyes, a warm hazel, radiate kindness, though there is a quiet strength beneath them. Her dark hair is arranged in a cascade of soft curls, and she wears a gown of emerald silk neckline adorned with delicate gold filigree and a scattering of emeralds that catch the light with every movement. A smaller, more delicate crown rests atop her head, its design mirroring the King’s but softened with curves, the emeralds nestled among the gold.
Your gaze falls to the figure standing before them, and for a fleeting moment, your breath falters- a slight hitch that betrays your practiced poise.
Prince Eren Jaeger is the most beautiful man you have ever seen.
The sketches you studied so diligently back in the Southern Kingdom could not have prepared you for this. The boyish roundness captured in those images has vanished, replaced by the sharp cut of a jawline and the stark elegance of chiseled cheekbones. His dark brown hair is tied back in a low bun, though loose strands frame his face, softening its otherwise commanding structure. And his eyes- your breath catches again- are a startling blend of blue and green, so very vivid in the glittering sunlight of the throne room. Heavy, dark brows shadow them, adding a weight to his gaze that pins you in place for just a moment.
His stance is one of quiet authority, arms clasped behind his back, shoulders broad and posture straight, his presence filling the space as effortlessly as light fills the room. He is dressed in a deep green coat, its fabric heavy and rich, embroidered with fine golden thread that forms the wing sigil of House Jaeger. The high collar is lined with soft fur, framing the strong column of his neck, while a dark leather belt cinches the coat at his waist.
As your eyes meet his, you blink, lips parting slightly, the awe unbidden but undeniable. You catch yourself quickly, your expression softening into a composed smile as you step forward, holding his gaze with every movement.
At your approach, his head tilts ever so slightly, his dark brows knitting together in the faintest of furrows. His hands shift from behind his back to cross in front of him.
As you approach the dais, your steps slow until you still completely, your gaze locked with the Prince’s. He’s leaning forward now, strands of his dark hair slipping free to frame his face, his sharp features softened by an expression of undeniable curiosity. The space between you feels taut, humming with unspoken energy as you come to a stop just a step below him.
Through your lashes, you glance upward, the Prince’s face hovering close to yours, his breath almost tangible in the narrowing distance. The scent of him rises from his coat- leather and pine, warm and rugged- and it stirs something unwelcome in your chest, your heart betraying you with its heavy, uneven rhythm.
You wet your lips, your smile measured yet inviting, before placing a gloved hand over your chest, the other gathering the folds of your skirts. Slowly, you sink into a deep curtsy, the movement graceful and deliberate. Your head bows low, hair cascading forward to frame your face as the fabric of your skirts whispers against the polished floor. The silence surrounds you, immense, broken only by the soft rustle of cloth and the faint thrum of your pulse in your ears.
As you rise, your eyes find his again, and for a fleeting moment, the expression on his face catches you off guard. His lips are parted, his jaw tense, a flicker of something unreadable darkening the vivid blue-green of his gaze.
Your smile deepens as you lower the hand from your chest, sliding it free of your crimson glove in a single, fluid motion. The fabric slips away like a veil, offering your hand to the air between you. With deliberate grace, you extend it toward him.
“My Prince,” you say, your voice steady and low, your words carrying a quiet weight as your lips curve into a softer, more inviting smile. “I have been waiting for you.”
For a moment, he is still, assessing your words with a furrow in his brow that tells you no one else the nerve to speak first nor with such boldness.
Then, his hand darts to yours, his fingers closing around your bare skin with a quiet confidence. His fingers are smooth, nails well-manicured, very befitting of royalty. Finally, his lips break into a smile, but it throws you off guard. It’s not warm nor inviting, rather - confident and mischievous. It’s as if you’ve challenged him, and he readily accepts.
As you extend your hand toward him, you prepare yourself for a customary gesture- a kiss pressed to the back of your hand, a fleeting touch of courtly decorum. But instead, his lips find the cool silver of the ring on your middle finger, the ruby-encrusted seashell motif of House Marley glinting between you. The gesture speaks volumes without words, the ring declaring your origins and your place within the Southern Kingdom, and yet he has kissed it.
Your brow arches slightly at the unexpected defiance of tradition, a flicker of intrigue stirring in your chest as the Prince’s kiss lingers on the symbol of your lineage as if to make a statement, to make a challenge. Still, his lips hover against the metal as his eyes rise to meet yours. They gleam with something unspoken- mischief, intrigue, a spark that feels like the beginning of a game you cannot yet define.
“And I, you, my Lady,” he murmurs, his voice low, words curling around the stillness between you, a heavy-set smoke.
He lets go of your hand as you straighten, and you watch his eyes flicker down your body, beholding the full sight of you- Marley’s prized possession, its most eligible Lady- here for him. Behind him, his father, the King, clears his throat.
“Welcome to the Central Kingdom, Lady Marley. I am King Grisha Jaeger, this is my wife, Queen Carla Jaeger,” he gestures towards the Queen adjacent to him, who offers a smile, “and my son, Prince Eren.” He rises to place a hand on the Prince’s shoulder. The Prince nods, eyes never leaving yours. You hold his gaze.
“It is an honour, and the palace is breathtaking.” You reply, offering the King the warmest smile you can muster.
“You flatter us, Lady Marley. We hope you will find everything you need here for the duration of the Courtment. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to let your chambermaid know.” The king says.
“I trust you are well?” Prince Eren cuts in. Your gaze flickers back to him, and his head is tilted- of course, he wants to know if you want to be here. He wants to know his contenders are truly vying for him. A challenge, subtle but clear. You lift your chin ever so slightly to reply, but a subtle movement behind the Prince catches your attention.
Your words die instantly in your throat.
Behind the thrones, framed by heavy emerald curtains that stretch skyward, a guard stands apart, his presence marked by quiet authority.
Unlike the others lining the hall, his attire is stripped of the meticulous ceremonial iron armour. A green cloak rests over his shoulders, fastened with a badge of rank clipped above his heart, but he wears no chestplate and no hood to shadow his face. Instead, a simple white shirt clings neatly to his form, tucked into black leather pants that are pressed neatly. Straps and harnesses cross his chest and thighs, each securing blades that glint faintly in the light. Black combat boots ground him, their laces perfectly ordered, and though his appearance is unadorned, it carries an undeniable precision, a readiness that commands respect.
His dark hair is clipped short, neatly maintained, the strands falling over his forehead. The cut is clean, accentuating the clarity of his features: an angular face, fine-boned, a jawline sharp enough to catch the light, and cheekbones high and pronounced. Each detail of his expression is honed to a razor’s edge- from his pale skin unblemished, tp his lips set in a thin, neutral line, revealing nothing of his thoughts.
But it’s not any of this that stops you in your tracks. It’s his eyes- gleaming grey, cold and bright as polished steel under the light of the throne room. They fix on you with startling directness, his dark brows drawn low in an expression of disinterest that borders on indifference, as if you’re nothing worth noting.
Shut up kid, I’m trying to keep your bratty ass alive.
You part your lips to answer the Prince, but no words surface. The room tightens around you, the weight of the guard's gaze pressing against your composure. Your eyes flick away from him before the royal family can sense your hesitation, your focus snapping back to the Prince, tethered by necessity.
Your heart thunders in your ears, a deafening drumbeat that threatens to drown out your thoughts. You force a smile onto your lips.
“I am very well, thank you,” you say, though the words feel hollow, fragile things barely held together by the willpower straining beneath your skin.
Your pulse thrums in your neck, a frantic staccato, as you blink and breathe, trying to steady yourself. But it’s no use. The memory of those eyes- steel-grey and cold as frost- anchors itself in your mind.
The realization has already struck; a blade between your ribs, those eyes, the very eyes that have haunted your dreams for weeks, belong to the guard.