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 explosion tore through the palace's eastern wing, flames clawing at tapestries dyed with Feron's silver and Pherr's crimson. Valencia staggered, her crown askew, as Xyrus hauled her behind a crumbling pillar. Smoke choked the hall, screams mingling with the crackle of burning timber.

"The vaults," Xyrus coughed, blood streaking his temple. "They're after the silver reserves."

Valencia gripped her dagger, the vines beneath her skin pulsing in time with her rage. "Then let's give them a *warmer* welcome."

They fought through collapsing corridors, past servants and nobles alike trampled in the panic. In the vault's antechamber, they found the rebel leader dueling a shadowed figure—a Pherri captain, his blade glinting with Lysandra's venom.

"*You*," Valencia hissed, recognizing the man who'd once taught her archery.

He lunged, but Xyrus intercepted, their swords sparking. "Go!" he barked at Valencia. "The passage!"

The hidden tunnel reeked of damp and deceit. Valencia followed the trail of scattered silver coins to a grotto where the rebel leader's second-in-command knelt beside a smoldering crate.

"Traitor," Valencia whispered, her voice colder than the crypts.

The man smiled, holding up a vial of her crystallized blood. "Lysandra pays better than nostalgia."

She didn't hesitate. The vines erupted from the walls, pinning him as she drove her dagger into his heart. His blood seeped into the earth, and the roots *shuddered*, drinking greedily.

When Xyrus found her, she was kneeling in the dark, her hands stained. "He was family once," she said, hollow.

Xyrus pulled her to her feet. "So are we."

The rebel leader awaited them in the scorched throne room, her crow feathers singed. "Your pretty sacrifice bought us hours, not days. The vines are failing."

Valencia tore off her crown, slamming it onto the map table. "What would you have me do? Bleed the entire court?"

"Yes." The woman's eyes gleamed. "Starting with *him*." She pointed at Xyrus.

Silence fell. Xyrus didn't flinch.

Valencia laughed, sharp and broken. "You think I'd trade his life for a few wilted fields?"

"No," the rebel leader said softly. "I think you'll trade your own."

That night, Valencia stood in the mine, the vines whispering *more, more, more*. Xyrus found her with the ceremonial dagger pressed to her wrist.

"Stop." His hand closed over hers.

"It's the only way to buy time," she said, trembling.

"There's another way." He turned her palm up, slicing his own. Their blood mingled, dripping onto the roots. The vines *thrashed*, then stilled, glowing with a light neither silver nor crimson.

Xyrus met her gaze. "Our ancestors hated each other. Maybe that's why they never tried this."

In the crypts, they found the truth: Liora's tomb wasn't empty. A skeleton lay inside, its ribs threaded with vines, a dagger of fused silver and obsidian clasped in its hands.

*"The crown is a root,"* Valencia read the new inscription. *"But roots entwined cannot be severed."*

Xyrus touched the blade. "Together. Or not at all."

Veins of Betrayal