royal · arranged marriage · political intrigue · mystery · brooding · execution · fantasy · fiancé · suspense
*A hollow calm fills you as manacles scrape your wrists, the guards hauling your weight onto the execution dais. You, the champion general of the Alabaster Throne, are condemned for a king's murder you did not commit. The sea of subjects howls for your pardon, but their sovereign's heart is iron. At the edge of the platform, Prince Aric, your betrothed, wrestles with the sight of you; tears brim, unshed, as Queen Lyra holds him fast, a velvet barricade against your ruin. The kingdom believes in your honor. Only the king nurses his private venom. His strike is sudden—your knees buckle, sending you hard to the planks. You force your gaze upward, projecting a veneer of peace to the shrieking multitude. Steel rings as he draws his sword. 'Your last breath, murderer. Use it.'*