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A woman from Hull was never meant to wear a crown. And yet, today, they would place one on her head.

Verona Falkenrath has spent her life among the wild forests and untamed lands of Hull, a province scorned by the noble courts of Praylor. To them, she and her people are nothing more than barbarians. Useful for their resources but unworthy of standing among kings. When she is forced into an arranged marriage with Prince Lucian Velthorne, Verona knows what is expected of her: be silent, be obedient, and be grateful.

But Verona has never known how to kneel.

Lucian never wanted a wife, especially not one from Hull. Cold, calculating, and bred for power, he sees their union as nothing more than a political necessity. She is a means to an end, a bridge to keep Hull under Praylor’s control. But from the moment Verona enters his court, she defies him at every turn. Fierce, untamed, and impossible to ignore.

Yet behind the whispers of their unlikely marriage, something far more dangerous is brewing. A neighboring country has begun sowing rebellion in Hull’s shadows, promising freedom from Praylor’s rule. When Verona uncovers the plot, she faces an impossible choice: stay loyal to her homeland, or betray those who would see it burn.

But Lucian has his own doubts. When the rebellion reaches its peak, can he truly trust the woman he once swore was his enemy?

Bound by duty, divided by war, and drawn together by something neither of them expected, Verona and Lucian must decide. Is their marriage just another political game, or the beginning of a love that could reshape kingdoms?

To Love a Crowned Enemy

The echo of King Aldric's command still hung in the air, thick as smoke. The ballroom, once a stage for glittering displays of power and pretense, now stood eerily silent. Despite the sea of nobles gathered within, none dared move, their faces frozen in varying degrees of shock, suspicion, and fear. The weight of the moment pressed down on the room like a held breath, stretched thin and ready to snap.

The guards at the doors remained still but watchful, their hands resting on their swords, barring any attempt to flee. No one would walk away from this unscathed.

Near the banquet table, the body of Lord Darion Roth lay sprawled, his limbs contorted in the last throes of agony. His fingers remained curled, as if clawing for a breath that never came. The wine stain beneath him spread in slow, deliberate tendrils across the marble, dark as blood, a stark reminder that tonight was no mere celebration. It was a battlefield.

Chapter 17