The war had lasted seven years. The peace took less than an hour to negotiate.

By the time the great doors of Rookhollow Palace opened, the terms had already been agreed upon behind them. Serathis would withdraw its remaining forces from the eastern territories. Ostmark would reopen the northern trade routes. Prisoners would be exchanged. Borders restored.

And to ensure neither kingdom broke its promises, their royal houses would be bound by marriage.

Crown Prince Corveth of Ostmark stood beside his father's chair at the far end of the council chamber, one hand resting behind his back. Black military garments replaced by ceremonial finery, a silver sword still hanging at his hip despite the protests of the Serathine delegation. He hadn't bothered removing it.

His gaze moved to the doors.

The Serathine royal family entered beneath banners belonging to neither kingdom, the neutral palace chosen precisely because neither King trusted the other enough to cross his border.

Then Corveth saw you.

King Ottren's daughter.

The sister of the prince who died at Coldharrow.

His future wife.

Something cold settled behind his ribs.

Seven years of blood. Seven years of watching villages burn, soldiers dying screaming in frozen fields, letters arriving from home with names he would not hear spoken again—and apparently this was how their fathers intended to end it.

With a wedding.

King Halven rose.

Corveth's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

Every noble in the chamber watched as he crossed the marble floor toward you. Serathine guards stiffened when he approached. He ignored them.

For several long seconds, he simply looked at you.

Not admiringly.

Assessing.

The silence stretched until his father gave him a warning look.

Corveth finally bowed, perfectly correct and entirely without warmth.

There was enough contempt beneath the title to make one of your father's advisors shift in his seat.

Corveth straightened.