Chapter 1 - The Iron Han
Althea hovered on the threshold, her hand curling around the doorframe for just a second too long. Every instinct told her to leave before she could be pulled any deeper into whatever scheme waited on the other side. But leaving had never been her choice, not really.
The heavy oak doors creaked open, and Althea stepped into the cold, dimly lit room. The air smelled faintly of parchment, wax, and her father's favorite wine—an aroma she'd grown to associate with bad news. The king sat behind his desk, slouched in his chair, a man carrying the weight of a kingdom on his back. A few high-ranking courtiers hovered at the edges of the room, but it was the knight standing by the door that caught Althea's attention.
She was tall—much taller than Althea—her armor dull from travel but meticulously maintained. A sword hung at her hip, and her gloved hands rested behind her back in a stance of perfect discipline. The knight's face was unreadable, all sharp angles and stillness, like a statue carved from stone. When their eyes briefly met, Althea was struck by the sheer emptiness in them—cold, calculating, and distant. She immediately disliked her.
"Sit," her father said, without looking up from the papers scattered across his desk.
Althea didn't move. "What is this about?" she demanded.
The king finally raised his head, his expression as hard as the marble walls surrounding them. "You will marry Prince Gerant of Rithmar within the year."
The words struck her like a slap, knocking the air from her lungs. "What?"
The courtiers shuffled awkwardly at her outburst, but the knight by the door didn't flinch.
Her father continued, voice cold and matter-of-fact. "The negotiations with Rithmar have failed. War is imminent unless we secure this alliance. Your marriage will do what treaties could not." He leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk. "This is your duty."
My duty. Of course it was marriage. It was always marriage. A princess's duty, they called it—though it felt more like selling livestock. Althea's nails dug into her palms, but she didn't flinch. "So this is my punishment," she said bitterly. "For the treaty you couldn't hold together."
The king's lips pressed into a thin line. "This is your responsibility," he corrected. "And if you refuse, people will die."
His words dropped like stones into the silence.
She wanted to scream at him, to throw his precious papers off the desk and burn the whole room to ash. But years of training held her still. Instead, she forced a bitter smile onto her lips. "You can't do this."
"You'll find that I can." Her father's gaze didn't waver. "It's time you learned what it means to be a princess."
Something heavy lodged in her chest—a mixture of anger, frustration, and something darker, colder. Her pulse pounded in her ears, hot and fast, the urge to lash out coiling tight inside her. She could feel it rising—sharp words ready to tear from her throat, hands twitching with the need to do something. But what good would it do? Words wouldn't stop this.
Not here. Not with him.
She knew, deep down, that she couldn't change his mind. The decision had already been made long before she'd stepped into the room.
She stepped forward, deciding defiance anyway, and planting both hands on the desk. "I will not go."
The king's eyes, dark and unyielding, met hers without a flicker of emotion. "You will," he said quietly, "if you care at all for the lives this marriage will save."
For a moment, the room fell into silence, thick with tension.
"You expect me to believe this?" Althea said, crossing her arms. "War is on our doorstep, and your grand solution is to marry me off to the first prince with a half-decent title?"
Her pulse throbbed in her temples. She had known her father could be cold—merciless, even—but this was something else entirely. This was a man cutting away the last pieces of her freedom with the precision of a butcher.
"You've always been difficult, Althea," the king said, leaning back in his chair. "But now it's time you understand the consequences of disobedience."
"And the guard?" she demanded, gesturing vaguely toward the courtiers. "You are going to let the kingdom go without protection, so they can to drag me three months to Rithmar?"
The king's expression didn't shift, but his gaze slid past her, toward the knight by the door.
"No," he said quietly. "Sir Catria will."
Althea stiffened, her head turning slowly toward the knight. The woman's expression hadn't shifted—still cold, still calm—but something in the way she stood felt different now, as if she were more alert. Watching her, not just waiting.
"Her?" Althea's voice was sharp with disbelief. "You're sending her to escort me?"
The knight said nothing. Not a twitch, not a flicker of expression. It was maddening.
Her father's voice dragged her attention back to him. "Catria is one of my most trusted knights."
Althea's heart pounded in her chest. "You think she can keep me in line?"
Her father gave a small, dismissive shrug. "I think you'll find her quite capable." Althea shot Catrina a glare.
"What's the matter, Sir Knight? Cat got your tongue?" Althea tilted her head, waiting. The silence stretched, sharp and deliberate, until it pricked at the edges of her patience. Still nothing. She swore the woman didn't even blink. That silence was the worst kind of answer—more maddening than words could ever be. She hated the way that silence needled under her skin, digging deeper the longer it went on.
"You'll leave at dawn," he continued. "Catria will see to it that you arrive safely—and that you stay on course."
The message was clear. If she tried to run, Catria would stop her. If she fought, Catria would drag her back.
The princess lifted her chin, her voice low and defiant. "If you think I'll make this easy for you, you're wrong."
"I don't expect you to make anything easy," the king said, already returning to his papers. "That's why I chose her."
Althea glanced over, her gaze locking once more with Catria's. The knight's expression remained unreadable, but something about the stillness in her posture felt like a warning—fight me if you want, but you will lose.
Fury swelled in Althea's chest, hot and undeniable, but she swallowed it down with a bitter taste. Her teeth clenched so hard it sent a sharp ache down her jaw.
The knight didn't look away, her stare unblinking. There was no sympathy in those eyes, no hint of pity or regret. Only cold purpose.
It was infuriating.
"I won't go," Althea said, but the words sounded weak now, hollow. She hated the way her voice wavered, like she was already losing.
Her father gave a dismissive wave, his focus already back on the papers before him. "You don't have a choice."
For a long moment, Althea stood frozen, her breath shallow, hands trembling at her sides. The walls of the palace seemed to press in on her, suffocating. She had spent her entire life playing by the rules of men like her father—smiling when told, sitting when asked, and doing her best to make herself small enough to fit within their narrow expectations.
But this… this was a betrayal she hadn't seen coming.
The anger surged again, sharp and hot. She could feel it pressing against her ribs, demanding release, but she swallowed it down. Not here. Not now.
She turned back to Catria, glaring up at her. "I hope you enjoy failure, Sir Knight," she whispered with a wicked smile. "It's going to suit you."
"Enough, Althea. You're dismissed." her father finally said firmly.
The finality in his voice felt like a door slamming shut.
Althea lingered for a moment longer, her fists clenched tight at her sides. She had smiled when told, curtsied when asked, even bit her tongue when every instinct told her to speak. And it had never been enough—not once. This was the final betrayal, and she hadn't even seen it coming.
Then, without another word, she spun on her heel and strode toward the door.
The heavy doors groaned open as she swept through them, her skirts whispering against the stone floor. A draft slid into the room, raising the hair on the back of her neck, but she didn't look back. The clink of Catria's armor followed like a second heartbeat, steady and relentless. And with every step they took, Althea felt the chains cinch tighter around her, dragging her toward a fate she couldn't escape. This wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.
The corridor beyond the doors felt colder, somehow—like the air itself carried the weight of her father's command. The stone beneath her feet was rough, uneven, but Catria's boots fell with perfect rhythm behind her. Steady. Unrelenting. Just like everything else in her life that she couldn't control.
