The grand hall of Feron's palace shimmered with the glow of a thousand candles, their light reflecting off the gilded walls and the jeweled crowns of the assembled nobility. It was a day of celebration, a day of unity—but for Princess Valencia of Pherr, it felt more like a funeral.

She stood at the altar, her emerald-green gown clinging to her like a chain. The weight of her crown, adorned with the sapphires of her kingdom, pressed heavily on her brow. Across from her stood Prince Xyrus of Feron, his expression as cold and unyielding as the silver armor he wore. His piercing gray eyes met hers, and for a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of disdain. Good, she thought. Let him hate me as much as I hate him.

The priest's voice droned on, weaving words of unity and destiny, but Valencia barely heard them. Her mind raced with plans of escape, of rebellion, of anything that could free her from this gilded cage. She glanced at Xyrus again, his jaw clenched tight, his hands folded stiffly behind his back. He looked every bit the perfect prince—stoic, composed, and utterly insufferable.

"Do you, Prince Xyrus of Feron, take Princess Valencia of Pherr to be your lawfully wedded wife?" the priest asked, his voice echoing through the hall.

Xyrus hesitated, his gaze flickering to the crowd of nobles watching with bated breath. Valencia held her breath too, hoping—praying—he would refuse. But then he spoke, his voice low and steady. "I do."

The words felt like a death sentence.

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When it was her turn, Valencia forced a smile, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "I do."

The crowd erupted into applause, but Valencia's heart sank. As Xyrus stepped forward to seal their union with a kiss, she leaned in and whispered, "Don't get too comfortable, husband. This marriage won't last a week."

His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, his lips brushing hers in a kiss that was as cold as the winter winds of Feron.

The reception was a spectacle of opulence, with tables laden with delicacies and musicians playing lively tunes. Valencia moved through the crowd like a storm, her laughter sharp and her words sharper. She made a point of flirting with every nobleman in sight, just to see Xyrus's jaw tighten with irritation.

He, in turn, ignored her completely, his attention focused on the council members and diplomats who approached him with congratulations. But Valencia noticed the way his eyes flickered to her whenever she laughed too loudly or danced too closely with someone else.

When they were finally forced to share their first dance as husband and wife, Valencia stepped on his toes—twice. "Oops," she said with a smirk. "I guess I'm not used to dancing with someone so… rigid."

Xyrus's grip on her waist tightened, his voice low and dangerous. "And I'm not used to dancing with someone so… chaotic."

Their eyes locked, and for a moment, the tension between them was palpable. But then Valencia pulled away, her smile saccharine. "Well, this has been delightful, but I think I'll retire for the night. Alone."

As she swept out of the hall, she could feel Xyrus's gaze burning into her back. Let him stew, she thought. This was only the beginning.

Their shared chambers were a battlefield of silence. Valencia claimed the largest bedroom, barricading the door with a chair for good measure. Xyrus, ever the pragmatist, took the adjoining study, his presence a constant reminder of the life she now had to endure.

As she lay in bed, staring at the ornate ceiling, Valencia vowed to make this marriage as miserable as possible—for both of them.

Little did she know, Xyrus was making the same vow.