Trouble in Paradise

Chapter 3 the Red Moon Rises.

Eclipsa had never looked more alive.

Its towering walls—carved from pale stone that shimmered faintly under torchlight—stood open to the world, welcoming all nine cities into its heart. Banners of every kingdom lined the streets, their colors clashing yet somehow harmonious beneath the rising glow of the Red Moon.

For one night, Riverdale pretended to be whole. The palace of Eclipsa gleamed. Not with the overwhelming grandeur of Astrad, nor the solemn mysticism of Alvidon but with something quieter.

Elegance.

Refinement.

A beauty that did not demand attention, but earned it.

Inside the grand ballroom, nobles and royals from across Riverdale gathered beneath crystal chandeliers that reflected light like fractured stars. Conversations flowed—measured, political, careful.

Every smile meant something. Every glance carried weight. Then a voice rang out. Clear. Sharp. Unmistakable.

“Long live King Aldric of Davion and the great city of Davion!”

The hall shifted not loudly, but noticeably.

King Aldric entered first. Tall, composed, his presence grounded in authority rather than spectacle. At his side walked Queen Ella, her grace quiet but undeniable.

Behind them was Princess Talia. She stepped into the hall with open curiosity, her gaze alive, taking in everything at once. The lights. The movement. The people. For all Davion’s strength, this was not her world. Not truly.

She smiled—soft, genuine, unguarded.

Adventure. That was what she had come for.

Behind her, two small figures struggled to maintain composure—the young twin princes, barely four, dressed in miniature versions of royal attire, their curiosity barely contained despite the stern guidance of attendants.

A rare blessing after years of silence, and fruitless marriage to four noble women after Queen Ella, none of which bare a child, the royal line had been restored.

Davion took its place among the gathered delegates, poised and disciplined. They stood apart, not physically, but ideologically.

A kingdom that rejected magic in a room built upon it. Still, they were respected and feared.

Moments passed.

The voice returned.

“Long live King Thoa of Astrad and the great city of Astrad!”

This time the room felt it. The doors opened wider and Astrad entered. Power did not always need to be spoken. Sometimes, it simply walked into a room.

King Thoa led them, his presence commanding, his expression unreadable. At his side, Queen Aria radiated elegance edged with something colder, her gaze sharp, her smile controlled.

Behind them was the princes of Astrad, and him.

Talia felt it before she fully saw him. A shift. A pull. Something quiet, but undeniable.

Pyrrhos.

He did not need to announce himself. The room did it for him. Whispers spread like wildfire, low but urgent. Eyes followed him. Some in awe. Some in fear. Some in something darker.

He was beautiful, but not in the way others were. There was something wrong about it. Something too precise. Too perfect. Silver hair falling unbound, pale skin untouched by warmth, and those eyes—gold. Not soft. Not kind. But bright with something that felt older than the room itself.

Talia stared. She couldn’t help it. This was the man. The one from the Labyrinth. The one the threads had chosen. Her supposed fated mate.

The thought almost made her laugh again. Almost. But this time she didn’t. Because now, in the open light of the world, it didn’t feel like a joke.

As if sensing her gaze, Pyrrhos turned. Their eyes met. For a moment the room disappeared.

Talia’s breath caught—not from awe, not from fear, but from something she couldn’t immediately define. Recognition again.

Too fast, she lowered her gaze. Not out of submission. But instinct.

Pyrrhos watched the movement. Noted it. Then he looked away. As though it meant nothing. But something had already begun.

The Red Moon had not yet risen fully. The ceremony had not yet fully begun. The kingdoms still smiled, still spoke, still played their careful games of alliance and deception.

---

The second night of the Red Moon did not begin in celebration.

It began in silence.

The great hall of Eclipsa, once filled with music and laughter, now stood guarded. Torches burned lower, their light steady but subdued, as if even flame understood the weight of what was unfolding within.

All ten rulers of Riverdale had gathered. No servants lingered. No music played. Only power spoke.

Voices rose and fell behind closed doors, measured at first, then sharpened, then restrained again. No kingdom trusted another fully, yet none could afford open fracture.

Not now. Not when the balance had begun to shift. By the time the doors opened again a decision had been made. Not peace. Not unity, but something far more dangerous.

Alliance.

Astrad and Davion.

The announcement spread quickly, carried through whispers before it ever reached the ears of the crowd. By the time the music resumed in the outer halls, the truth had already taken root.

A marriage. A binding of power. Magic and will.

In a private chamber deep within the palace, far from the celebration, the reality of that decision began to unravel.

Queen Aria paced.

The room was too small for her anger. Each step was sharp, restless, her silk robes whispering against the polished floor as though even they could not settle.

“We know what Davion is,” she said, her voice tight with restrained fury. “A strong kingdom, yes. Disciplined. Efficient.”

She turned abruptly, her gaze locking onto her husband.

“But they are nothing without magic.”

King Thoa remained seated, calm. As though her agitation barely touched him.

“They prosper without it,” he replied evenly. “That alone makes them dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” she echoed, incredulous. “Or limited? They reject the gods. They reject magic itself. That is not strength, it is arrogance.”

She moved again, faster this time.

“Our son Emerald, the crown prince, should be bound to power that strengthens Astrad, not… dilutes it. If he must marry, then let it be a witch. A sorceress. Someone from Alvidon, perhaps. Someone who understands what it means to wield real power.”

Thoa’s gaze lifted to her slowly. “Enough.”

The word was quiet but final.

“This is not a suggestion,” he continued. “It is a decision made by the Riverdale council.”

Aria’s expression hardened. “Then the council has overstepped.”

Silence fell between them heavy and charged.

“No son of mine,” she said, each word deliberate, “will be married to a Davion woman.”

For a moment, Thoa said nothing.

“Unless…” he began. “Pyrrhos.”

The name settled into the room like something unwelcome.

A slow smile spread across her lips. Satisfied.

“Yes,” she said softly. “Yes… that would be fitting.”

She turned fully toward him now, her earlier anger dissolving into something far more composed.

“That bastard son of yours.”

There was no hesitation in her voice. No doubt.

Thoa did not correct her. He simply watched her. She had never known. Not truly. Not the full truth.

To her, Pyrrhos was a stain. A reminder of a marriage that had never touched her heart. A child that did not belong to her.

But to Thoa, Pyrrhos was something else entirely. A bargain. A necessity. A secret too dangerous to speak aloud.

His mind flickered, just briefly, to that night.

To Astraios.

To the terms that had shaped everything that followed. Power, victory, prosperity and the child.

Thoa exhaled slowly.

“If Davion must be bound to Astrad,” he said at last, “then let it be through him.”

Aria nodded, satisfied.

“Yes,” she murmured. “Let them have him.”

Outside, the music swelled once more. Laughter returned. The illusion of unity restored.

---

The celebration had returned.

Music soared through the grand hall once more, laughter spilling between nobles like nothing had changed. Goblets clinked, silks shimmered, and the illusion of unity was carefully restored.

Then a voice cut through it all. Loud. Ceremonial. Unavoidable.

“Riverdale announces, with full heart of joy and peace—”

The music faltered. Conversations stilled.

“—the marriage alliance between Astrad and Davion.”

A ripple moved through the hall.

“Uniting their royal bloodlines through Prince Pyrrhos of Astrad and Princess Talia of Davion.”

“What?!” Talia’s voice broke through it, sharp and unrestrained.

Across the hall, Pyrrhos went rigid. His jaw clenched. His fists tightened at his sides.

“s**t,” he muttered under his breath, the word heavy with restrained fury.

Beside him, Annalise froze. Her gaze snapped toward him, searching, confused, but he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes had already found Talia.

Across the crowded hall. Across the weight of expectation. Across something neither of them had chosen. Talia felt it. That gaze. And it only made everything worse.

Without another second wasted, she turned and strode toward her father, her movements sharp, purposeful. Nobles parted instinctively, sensing the storm in her wake.

“Father,” she called, her voice low but urgent.

King Aldric glanced at her once and understood.

He guided her away from the crowd, toward a quiet corner where shadows swallowed sound and celebration became distant noise.

The moment they were alone—

“How could you?” Talia demanded.

Her voice trembled, not with weakness, but with disbelief. “Are you selling me off?”

Aldric’s expression softened. “Never.”

The word came firm. Immediate.

“I would never sell my daughter,” he continued, stepping closer. “Not for power. Not for peace.”

“Then what is this?” she pressed, her voice rising despite herself. “A decision made without me? A life decided in a room I wasn’t even allowed into?”

Aldric exhaled slowly. “It is survival.”

Talia stilled.

“The council has spoken,” he said. “And when all ten cities agree on something like this, there is no refusal.”

Her hands curled at her sides. “There is always a choice.”

“Not this time.” The words landed harder than any shout.

“If we refuse,” Aldric continued, quieter now, “we stand alone. And alone… we fall.”

Talia’s chest tightened.

“War would follow,” he said. “And Davion, as strong as we are cannot fight the entire balance of Riverdale at once.”

Silence stretched between them. Then, softer, “Duty before affection, my daughter.”

The words were not cold. They were not unkind. But they did not comfort her.

Aldric stepped forward, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. A rare gesture. A fragile one.

“I am sorry.”

Then he left. Leaving her alone, the music returned to her ears in fragments. Laughter. Voices. Life continuing as though nothing had shattered. But everything had.

Talia stood still unmoving. Her future, gone. Rewritten in a single breath. Her mind raced, thoughts crashing into one another.

Freedom.

Choice.

Control.

All slipping through her fingers. And then that memory, the Labyrinth. The golden threads. Him.

Pyrrhos.

Her supposed fated mate. Her jaw tightened.

“Fate…” she whispered under her breath.

A humorless scoff followed.

“If this is fate,” she muttered, “then it’s the worst kind of joke.”

Her eyes hardened. “No.”

The word was quiet but resolute. “My life is mine.”