Draeven did not send a messenger to Xeraphyn; he went himself. He arrived not with gifts, but with ten thousand armored shadows—his elite legion—stationed just outside the city gates. It wasn't a visit; it was a silent siege.
"I do not come for your land," Draeven told the trembling King of Xeraphyn. "I come for a union. Give me your daughter, Princess Elara, and you will never have to fear the Seven Kingdoms again."
The King of Xeraphyn looked at the dark steel in Draeven's eyes and knew he had no choice. The Princess was the price for his crown's safety.
The wedding was not a celebration; it was a funeral for Elara's old life. She was a woman of quiet strength, her skin as pale as moonlight and her eyes the color of woodsmoke. When Draeven took her hand, his touch was as cold as ice. He didn't see a wife; he saw a vessel for his vengeance.
Life in Zhalver became a series of long, silent winters for Queen Elara. The Black Citadel was a place where laughter died. But Draeven's plan worked. Within a few years, two sons were born to the dark throne: Malakor and Vane.
They were children of the night, their eyes holding a glint of the Xeraphyn mist and the Zarethian cold. Draeven watched them like a hawk, pushing them into training before they could even walk properly. He didn't want them to be children; he wanted them to be predators.