most_eloquent

Prince Xyrus of Feron and Princess Valencia of Pherr are forced into a marriage to unite their warring kingdoms. Xyrus, a stoic and duty-bound heir, sees the union as a necessary sacrifice, while Valencia, a fiery and rebellious princess, views it as a prison. From a loveless wedding to clashing in the palace, their animosity is undeniable.

But as they navigate court politics and an assassination attempt, their hatred begins to crack. Valencia discovers Xyrus’s hidden passion for music, and Xyrus admires her fierce loyalty to her people. Just as they start to fall for each other, a betrayal threatens to tear them apart.

A Lover's Final Dance

The coronation gown hung heavy on Valencia's frame, its silver threadwork biting into her shoulders like chains. She stared at her reflection, the hollows beneath her eyes darker than the obsidian shards in her crown. The vines' hunger had grown relentless—every drop of blood she fed them bought a day's reprieve, no more.

A knock. Xyrus entered, his gaze lingering on the fresh bandages peeking beneath her sleeve. "The rebels have gathered in the courtyard. They're demanding answers."

"Answers?" She snorted. "They'll get a spectacle."

He stepped closer, his voice low. "Postpone the coronation. Let me root out the traitors first."

"And let Vela claim we're fractured?" She turned, the gown's train slithering across the floor. "This is the *only* play."

His jaw tightened. "At what cost?"

Before she could answer, the rebel leader stormed in, her crow feathers bristling. "The southern fields are failing again. Your *cure* is a farce."

Valencia lifted her chin. "Then stand with me today, and I'll bleed anew tomorrow."

The woman's laugh was jagged. "Promises won't feed the dead."

The coronation procession snaked through Feron's streets, Valencia's palanquin a gilded cage. Xyrus rode at her side, his hand never straying far from his sword. The crowds roared, but their cheers felt thin, laced with fear.

At the Temple of Ashes, the High Priest anointed Valencia's brow with oil and crushed moonflower petals—a Pherri tradition. "Do you swear to bind your life to the land?"

"And to defend its people, even at the cost of your blood?"

Valencia hesitated, her eyes finding Xyrus in the shadowed archway. "I do."

The priest pressed a ceremonial dagger into her palm. "Then bleed for them."

She sliced her forearm, letting crimson pool into the temple's sacred basin. The crowd gasped as the liquid *crystallized*, swirling into a perfect replica of Pherr's crescent moon.

Xyrus's breath caught. The display was meant to awe, but he saw the tremor in her hand, the sweat beading her temple.

The feast that night was a viper's nest. Feron's lords raised goblets with poison-tipped smiles, while Pherri delegates eyed the silverware like weapons. Valencia played her part—laughing, dancing, her every step a calculated performance.

Xyrus found her on the balcony, her mask slipping as she gripped the railing. "You're pushing too hard."

"Says the man who sleeps with a dagger under his pillow." She leaned into the wind, the moonlight carving her face into something ethereal. "We're not so different, you and I."

He reached for her, then stopped. "You'll kill yourself for a crown."

"And you'll die for duty." Her smile was bitter. "At least mine leaves a legacy."

A shout erupted inside. They rushed back to find a Pherri delegate convulsing, wine spilled across the tiles. *Lysandra's venom.*

Valencia knelt, pressing her palm to the man's chest. "Fetch the vines!"

Xyrus gripped her shoulder. "No. Not here."

The rebel leader obeyed, returning with a pulsing root. Valencia slashed her palm again, letting blood drip into the man's mouth. The delegates recoiled as the venom hissed out of his pores, evaporating into smoke.

The crowd erupted—some in awe, others in terror.

Later, in the crypts, Xyrus cornered her. "You're not a goddess. Stop pretending to be one."

"What choice do I have?" She pressed a trembling hand to Liora's tomb. "The rot is in *us* now. In our councils, our beds. Even you don't know who to trust."

He stepped closer, his voice raw. "I trust *you*."

The admission hung between them, fragile as the candlelight.

Then the explosion rocked the palace.

The Crown’s Price