The carriage ride toward the border was a slow, agonizing descent into silence. Behind them lay the shimmering quartz spires of Luminalis, gold fading into a hazy memory. Ahead, the sky turned the color of a fresh bruise—a deep, swirling violet that marked the beginning of the Shadow Realm.
Elissa sat huddled in the corner of the velvet-lined carriage, her knees pulled to her chest. Every jolt of the wheels felt like a heartbeat thudding against the floorboards. Across from her, Kaelen sat with his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the window. Every few minutes, his fingers would twitch, and a small puff of orange smoke would curl from his knuckles—a nervous habit he only displayed when he was ready to kill.
"Stop doing that, Kael," Lyra whispered from beside Elissa. She reached out and took Elissa's cold hand, rubbing it between her own. "You're scaring her more than the vampires are."
"The vampires should be the ones scared," Kaelen growled, finally looking at Elissa. His expression softened, the hard lines of his jaw relaxing just a fraction. "El, look at me."
Elissa lifted her head, her pale hair falling over her shoulders like frayed silk. I look like a ghost already, she thought bitterly. A ghost being delivered to a graveyard.
"I'm not going to let them keep you if he's a monster," Kaelen said, his voice dropping to a low, fierce register. "Treaty or no. If Prince Alistair treats you as anything less than a queen, I will burn that obsidian castle of theirs to the ground and bring you home. Do you hear me?"
"And start a war?" Elissa's voice was barely a thread. "Father would never forgive you. Mother would probably thank the vampires for the excuse to finish me off."
"Father is a fool who measures worth in fireballs and lightning strikes," Kaelen spat. He leaned forward, his intensity radiating heat. "You have a heart, Elissa. In a family of weapons, you're the only person who actually lives. That's why I'm here. That's why Lyra is here."
Elissa looked down at their joined hands. A heart doesn't stop the Hollowed, she thought. A heart doesn't make me a Princess worth keeping. She felt a sudden, sharp pang of guilt. Kaelen was the heir; he was the sun of their kingdom. And here he was, risking his standing for the "weakest" sibling.
The carriage ground to a halt. The air inside the cabin suddenly turned frigid, the breath escaping their lips in silver plumes.
The carriage had barely settled into its tracks when the temperature plummeted. Inside, the silk cushions felt like sheets of ice. Lyra's breath came in ragged silver plumes as she glanced at Elissa, her hand instinctively checking the hidden weight of the dagger she'd tucked into her sister's skirts earlier.
"We're here," Lyra whispered, the gold of her eyes flickering with fear.
The door was wrenched open by a guard whose armor was already frosted over. Kealen stepped out first, his jaw set in a line of stubborn royal pride. Lyra followed, her head held high. But when Elissa stepped out, the world seemed to tilt. Her foot caught on the high metal threshold, and she lurched forward, her balance deserting her before she'd even touched the bridge.
On the northern side of the span, the darkness didn't just exist—it breathed.
From the swirling mist, a group of figures emerged. They glided with a liquid, terrifying synchronicity, their feet making no sound on the iron. At their head was a man who seemed to be the source of the cold itself.
Prince Alistair D'Valtheron.
Elissa felt the air leave her lungs. The stories of the "Monsters of the North" hadn't prepared her for the sheer, suffocating beauty of the man. He was tall—impossibly so—with a build that suggested the lean strength of a panther rather than the bulk of a soldier. His hair was black as a raven's wing, swept back from a face that was terrifyingly beautiful. High, sharp cheekbones, a straight, noble nose, and lips that looked like they were carved from marble.
But it was his eyes that froze her blood. They were a crystalline, piercing blue—the color of a glacier reflecting the sun. As he stepped onto the center of the bridge, his gaze bypassed the armed guards and the two powerful siblings. He locked onto Elissa. They didn't just see her; they seemed to weigh the very worth of her soul.
Kealen stepped forward, his hand resting pointedly on the hilt of his sword. "Prince Alistair D'Valtheron. I am Kealen Starwind, Crown Prince of the South. I believe you have a contract to finalize."
Alistair didn't look at the sword. He didn't even look at Kealen. His gaze remained locked on Elissa, a slow, mocking smirk touching the corner of his marble lips.
"The House of Aethelgard," Pureblooded Vampire said. His voice was a rich, dark velvet, a seductive baritone that seemed to vibrate through the very metal of the bridge. He didn't bow. He simply stood there, an apex predator waiting for his prize.
"I have no interest in paper, Prince Kealen," Alistair's voice was a low, resonant hum. "I am here for the girl. Send her."
Kealen's jaw tightened, but he gave a curt, stiff nod to Elissa.
Terrified and clutching her dress with white-knuckled intensity, Elissa began to walk. She was squeezing the fabric so hard to hide Lyra's dagger that the delicate Southern silk finally gave up. With a sharp, distinct rrip, the first layer of her overskirt tore.
Lyra's eyes widened to the size of saucers. Kealen, focused on the Prince, didn't notice the mishap, but the Pure-bloods across the bridge certainly did. To a vampire's ears, the sound of tearing silk was as loud as a gunshot.
The loose fabric immediately betrayed her. As Elissa took her first step, her heel entangled in the tattered silk. She stumbled, her arms flailing for a second before she managed to right herself.
Step two. Her foot caught again. She lurched to the left, looking less like a royal bride and more like a newborn fawn on a frozen pond.
Step three. A full, spectacular stumble that nearly sent her onto her knees.
Kealen's eyes narrowed in confusion—was his sister having a seizure? Lyra looked like she wanted to melt into the iron bridge. Across the way, Alistair's luminous eyes narrowed, a small, puzzled frown settling on his noble face. He watched her for a moment, his head tilted as if observing a particularly clumsy insect.
When Elissa stumbled a fourth time, her face burning with a heat that could have melted the bridge, Alistair had clearly seen enough.
He didn't glide; he moved like a flash of lightning. Before Elissa could blink, the Prince was standing directly in front of her. The scent of winter air and ancient stone hit her like a wall. Without a word, he reached down, his fingers finding the snagged, torn fabric of her skirt.
In one swift, violent movement, he tore the entire outer layer of the skirt away, leaving her in the simpler, more practical undershift.
Elissa's eyes went wide, her mouth falling open. "What have yo...?" she managed to squeak out but didn't finish, her face turning a shade of red that rivaled a Southern sunset.
Alistair straightened up, casually tossing the ruined silk over the side of the bridge into the abyss below. A flicker of genuine amusement danced in his luminous blue eyes as he looked down at her.
"At this rate, it will take a whole day to cross the bridge, Princess," Alistair said, his voice smooth as velvet. "I have a kingdom to run, and I'd prefer we reached it before the next century."
Elissa lowered her head, wishing the Iron Bridge would simply open up and swallow her whole. Lyra let out a breath that was half-sob, half-giggle, while Kealen stood frozen, wondering if he should draw his sword or thank the man for fixing his sister's wardrobe malfunction.
Alistair reached out a gloved hand, his smirk widening. "Shall we try again, or do I need to remove something else?" After a small pause "You are smaller than the reports suggested," he murmured.