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Elara’s lips part, but no sound follows.

Trying to calm the rolling in her stomach, Elara steps further into the dining hall. In front of her father, she searches his face, looking for a hint that it was nothing more than a cruel joke, clinging to the vain hope that she heard wrong and that he will correct himself. King Eric’s expression remains immovable, shaped by authority rather than care. He does not even bother to look at her, refusing to acknowledge his daughter’s presence in the chamber as he continues giving instructions to the knight before him.

Elara finally finds her voice. “What?” The word emerges thin. Fragile. Drawing a ragged breath, she repeats the question louder, disbelief sharpening its edges. “My departure?”

Her father sweeps his beige robe aside as he strides to the table, dropping into a chair. He folds his hands, his fingers brushing along the polished wood grains of the surface. “Was I unclear?” he asks, piercing her with a sharp glare as his eyes finally lock onto hers. “You will marry Prince Cael Everhart of Riverath. The dinner is tomorrow evening at this dining hall. His family, specifically Raelith, will arrive soon.”

“Why?” The sound tears from her throat. “Why would you arrange this without telling me? I am not prepared, Father. I do not want to marry anyone, let alone to a stranger!” Elara says, her voice rising against her fear.

“Your wants mean nothing when it comes to the preservation of the crown,” her father interrupts, his voice entirely stripped of warmth. “Sacrifices are required of those in our position. This marriage secures an alliance with Riverath while removing you as a concern. You will be cared for by a prince. It is practical.”

Her father cuts into the fish on his plate, lifting a bite to his mouth with callous ease, utterly unbothered by her distress.

A bitter laugh escapes Elara. One of the knights shifts, his hand drifting to the hilt of his sword. Her father lifts a single hand, halting the guard without so much as turning his head. “There is nothing practical about bartering away your own blood,” she snaps, years of suppressed suffering fracturing her composure.

King Eric stiffens, his expression tightening. He glares at Elara, his eyebrows furrowed above a harsh scowl. He turns to the knight beside him, snapping his arm toward the exit of the hall.

“Leave us,” he commands.

The knight’s eyes widen at the outburst. He bows, straightens, and leaves without another word, the heavy doors closing behind him.

When the knight is gone, Elara fills her lungs, stepping closer to her father. “The prince will care for me?” she repeats, the words tasting foreign on her tongue, her lips turning up in a sarcastic smile. “In the way you never did?”

Her father’s jaw tightens, a muscle flickering beneath his skin. He drops his voice to a dangerous growl, his eyes locking onto hers. “Mind your tongue, Elara.”

“And what care did you ever show this kingdom?” Her voice rises despite her effort to restrain it, reverberating against the high ceiling of the stone chamber. “You starved your people. You buried them beneath laws that strangled their very survival while you sat on your throne counting your gold!”

The accusations pour out, fueled by years of overheard suffering. Beneath these castle walls, she had listened to the muted protests of knights and grim reports from the villages. Kitchen staff whispered fearful confidences over the hearth, while the women of the court spoke of families who had gone without succor. For more than a decade, those fragments of suffering had remained at the edges of Elara’s life, impossible to confront because her father had forbidden her from stepping beyond the gates.

King Eric’s eyes flare. “You will not speak in such a manner to your king,” he says, his glare unyielding. “I will not permit it.”

“Not permitted to speak the truth?” Stepping forward, Elara clenches her hands at her sides until her nails bite into her palms. The pain grounds her as tears prick her eyes. “You avoided me my entire life. You dressed me like an ornament and called it duty. You demanded perfection from a child who was never offered comfort.”

“I provided you with everything you could need,” he says. “What more could you wish for?”

“You provided me with nothing!” Elara blinks back tears, her voice cracking as she spits the accusation at him. “You gave me possessions, but never a life. You locked me behind stone walls and golden gates and called it protection. You punished curiosity. You kept me from the people I was born to serve, from the land that was meant to be mine.”

“Enough!” her father roars, slamming his hands onto the table with enough force to make her jump. Pushing his chair back, he towers over her like a heavy shadow. “I gave you safety,” he growls, his eyes narrowing as Elara shrinks away from his frame. “I gave you finery, jewels, and a title. I provided you with every luxury this palace could afford, yet you stand before me as an ungrateful child. You will obey this command, and you will marry the prince of Riverath.”

“That is enough,” he says, taking a step forward. His breath rushes heavily from his nostrils while his fingers curl into tight fists, betraying a desperate attempt to refrain from striking her down once more. It is a physical violence she has known before, a truth that has taught her to fear the weight of his anger for years.

“You will conduct yourself with dignity. The prince expects you to be well dressed and well behaved. You can do that, can you not?” A patronizing smile touches his lips. He lowers himself back into his chair, lifts his fork, and resumes his meal. “You are dismissed.” The command falls flat.

“Why did you arrange this marriage?” A trembling sob escapes her mouth, fracturing her voice. “Is it to gain power for only yourself, that you are willing to throw me away as though I am not made from your own blood?” Tears stream down her cheeks, her composure already gone. “Or is it that you blame me for Mother’s death? Is that why you wish to never see or acknowledge me again?”

King Eric stills entirely, his eyes widening with a torrent of unsaid emotions. With a snapping movement, he turns, grabs a golden platter from the dining table, and hurls it across the hall. The metal shatters violently against the wall, shards raining down over one of the hanging candle sconces.

Elara flinches, stepping back as he closes the distance between them. “I will still stand my ground no matter what you do,” she cries, though the terror of her own father grips her tighter than before. “Mother would never approve of this treatment!”

“Do not involve your mother,” King Eric warns, his knuckles turning white.

King Eric steps even closer, towering over her. “I adored your mother. She was the sweetest soul to ever grace this realm,” he says, his own voice trembling with anger. “But you?” he sneers, his eyes sweeping over her frame with complete disdain. “I never wanted you. I planned for a son, and what did I get instead? A cheap, hollow imitation of the woman I loved.”

The breath escapes her, and she clamps a hand over her mouth to stifle a rising sob. Unwanted. She was unwanted simply because she was not born a son. Her knees buckle beneath the weight of his words, and she collapses onto the stone floor, the layered folds of her skirt pooling around her.

King Eric smiles, watching his own cruelty triumph as he continues without mercy. A violent panic seizes her as the man towering above her offers no remorse or succor. “This is for the best, Elara. For both of us,” he says. Turning toward the knights who watch the display with quiet appall by the door, he commands, “Remove yourselves. Leave the princess to her composure.”