Arranged marriage with the prince?

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POV—Prince Lucien of Thornvale

The clinking of goblets and the low hum of conversation grated on my ears as Lucien sat rigid in his chair, back straight as a blade. His father, King Edric, wore his usual composed mask, a bearded face of cold command, silver circlet catching the candlelight with every measured nod. His mother, Queen Amara, carried her smile like a polished dagger, sweetness hiding the calculation behind her ice-blue eyes.

They spoke in measured tones with the royal couple across from us, trying to charm them — words about alliances, peace, children, legacy. All while Lucien sat in suffocating silence.

He did not want this.

Lucien’s fingers curled around the polished silver goblet, knuckles whitening. The scent of roasted boar and rich spiced wine turned his stomach. At twenty-seven, he had fought on more battlefields than he could count, crushed entire rebellions, and yet here he was, a pawn on his parents’ dinner table.

“Lucien,” Lucien’s mother prodded gently, voice dripping honey. “Perhaps you would offer a word to our esteemed guests?”

Lucien raised his eyes, dark as onyx and just as unyielding, to the other side of the table. His face was carved from stone, jaw tense, expression unreadable.

“No,” He answered simply, voice low, unshaken.

Lucien’s father’s gaze shifted, sharp as a dagger’s edge. “Lucien. You will show courtesy.”

Lucien met his stare, refusing to yield. The only part of him that moved was the faint tightening of his throat.

“I am here,” Lucien said coldly, “as you commanded. That is courtesy enough.”

A silence fell, heavy, awkward. He felt no guilt.

His mother’s hand twitched around her goblet, jaw briefly tightening before the smile returned to her lips. “Forgive him,” she soothed the other monarchs, “our son is... reserved.”

Reserved. That was one word for it.

Lucien turned his eyes to the carved beams of the ceiling, willing the night to end. He had no desire to wed some pampered royal girl from another kingdom, no matter how many silk dresses she wore or how carefully her parents arranged this dance of pleasantries.

His future was his sword, his men, the dark iron of the Thornvale keep. Not this. Never this.

And yet, here He sat — the obedient son, trapped.