BRON TO RULE

“Your Highness, the hour has come. The ballroom awaits,” said the lady-in-waiting with a curtsy. Princess Iris rose gracefully, her gown trailing like silver light. “Very well." Let us not keep the court waiting.” “Ah, splendid as ever,” came a voice from the shadows. Prince Damian lounged against the marble pillar, his smirk faint but deliberate. Her eyes hardened. “And who granted you leave to enter my chamber, my lord?” He stepped closer, unbothered by her tone. “But, Princess, why such formality?" You should be accustomed to my presence by now. Soon enough, the kingdom shall celebrate our union. Iris exhaled sharply and rolled her eyes. In his cursed dreams, she thought, though her lips curved in a polite smile. “Shall we?” Damian did not wait for her answer, but boldly offered his arm, latching it with hers. Together, they descended into the grand hall. The ballroom glittered with chandeliers like a thousand burning stars. Nobles turned, their whispers rising like a chorus of bees. “Look, their Highnesses make a most striking pair,” one lady murmured behind her fan. “Indeed. ‘Tis said the prince visits her chambers oft,” whispered another. “Of course—she is to be his bride.” “Bride? "Has His Majesty given consent?” “Consent or no, the prince’s devotion speaks loudly enough.” Their words pressed against Iris’s ears like shackles. Suffocating… does their gossip never end? Damian leaned nearer, his breath brushing her cheek. “Ah, Princess… I see it. You cannot keep your eyes from me.” Her laugh was sharp and cold. “How pitiable. In this hall of beauty and grace, the only soul I find offensive… is you. Blond hair, blue eyes—yes, perhaps charming to the simple-minded. Yet to me? Nothing but tiresome.” Her skirts swept as she turned away, leaving him stunned. “Dearest Sister, come,” called Prince Cyrus from across the dais. “Sit by me." The ball not gladden you? You look most vexed. “Not so, Brother,” Iris murmured, lowering her voice. “Only… an unwelcome shadow cling too near.” The King, seated upon his throne, cast her a frosty glance. “If weariness has taken you, child, return to your chambers at once. Do not burden us with discontent. “Yes, Father.” Iris bowed her head, retreating swiftly. Perhaps I ought never to have come, she thought, her heart heavy. “Your Highness, you are returned so soon,” Daisy, her maid, said softly. “Has something transpired?” “No, Daisy. I am simply… exhausted.” “Then perhaps a warm bath will soothe you,” Daisy suggested gently. Iris smiled, though it was empty. “As you say.” Moments later, Daisy opened the lattice window. Sunlight spilled into the chamber. “Such fine weather, Princess." A shame to spend it enclosed. Would this not be a perfect day for a ride? At that, Iris’s eyes gleamed with sudden mischief. “A ride… yes, you are right.” She swiftly changed into her riding attire and hurried to the stables. There stood her steed, Max, stamping impatiently upon the straw. “Come, my loyal friend,” she whispered, stroking his mane. “Shall we show the wind our speed?” With a spirited neigh, Max leapt forward, carrying his princess across the fields. The wind tore through her hair, the earth thundered beneath their hooves, and for the first time that day, Iris breathed freely. Hours later, she slowed him with a gentle hand. “Enough, Max." "You have done well,” she murmured, patting his flank. “Let us return before the castle remembers my absence.”“Ha! What sound was that? Who goes there?” cried Princess Iris, her voice sharp as steel. A figure stepped forth from the shadows and bowed deeply. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I meant not to startle you. Allow me to present myself—I am Raymond Lamtin, Duke of Ashante.” Iris’s eyes widened. “Raymond… the sole heir of the late duke. ‘Tis said thou art renowned for thine unmatched swordcraft. The very same Duke of the South, feared across kingdoms for the countless foes thou hast laid low—standeth now before me?” The duke inclined his head, his gaze steady.