The Alliance

The spectacular dining hall of Mercia is eerily quiet, cloaked in the golden glow of the morning sun filtering through the towering stained-glass windows. A lavish spread of fruit-filled tarts, warm bread, honeyed meats, and steaming tea sits untouched on the long oak table. The air is thick, heavy with something unsaid. At the head of the table, Queen Eleanor, dressed in a regal midnight-blue gown, embroidered with silver thread in intricate, swirling patterns that resembles the constellations, sips her tea with the grace of someone who holds absolute control. Her piercing blue eyes are locked onto Prince Phillip, studying him the way a predator studies its prey. Phillip, still in a loose white tunic, his blonde hair tousled from sleep, stabs his spoon absentmindedly into his porridge. He knows this look. He leans back in his chair and sighs. His mother wants something. And when Queen Eleanor wants something, it is never up for negotiation. Judging by the careful way she has been watching him, this was going to be one of those conversations. She sets her cup down with quiet precision, folding her hands neatly before her. “Phillip,” she begins, her voice deceptively calm. “We must discuss your future.” Phillip exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “Can it wait until I’ve at least finished my breakfast?” He reaches for a goblet of wine, but the Queen subtly shifts it out of his reach with a raised brow. The Queen merely tilts her head, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “No, I’m afraid it cannot.” Something in her tone makes his stomach tighten. He sits up straighter, muscles tensing. “Go on then,” he says warily. She watches him for a moment longer, as if carefully choosing her words before delivering the blow. “You are to be married.” A tense silence fills the room. Phillip blinks, then lets out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Married?” He leans back, shaking his head. “To whom, exactly?” “Princess Bianca of Eldermere.” The name hangs in the air like a curse. Phillip’s grip tightens around his spoon until his knuckles turn white. “You cannot be serious.” The Queen remains unmoved. “The arrangement has been made. I have accepted the marriage proposal of King Maises of Eldermere’s daughter. She arrives in Mercia within days and you’d marry her. Phillip pushes his chair back abruptly, the wood scraping against the marble floor. “Tell me this is a jest! You made this decision without me?” His voice is dangerously low. Eleanor meets his glare with a cool, unwavering gaze. “I had no other choice.” He clenches his jaw. “So that’s it? I am to be bartered away like a sack of grain to secure an alliance?” Eleanor narrows her eyes. “Mind your tongue, Phillip. This is not a matter of mere trade—it is the future of Mercia.” Phillip runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “You expect me to marry a woman I have never met? To throw away my life for some political scheme?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “You cannot force me into this.” Eleanor sighs, her expression softening, but her resolve remains firm. “I do not expect you to understand now, but you will come to see the wisdom in this match. Eldermere is a wealthy kingdom, and this union will bring peace and prosperity to both lands.” Phillip scoffs. “And what of me, Mother? My happiness? My choices?” Phillip shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “You’ve done this before.” His voice is sharp now, cutting. “You forced my hand once, and we both know how that ended.” For the first time, the Queen’s expression flickers—just for a second. But her resolve remains ironclad. “This is different,” she says quietly. “No,” Phillip snaps. “It’s exactly the same.” A tense beat of silence. Then, his mother’s voice drops, colder now. “Like it or not, the princess is coming. And when she arrives, you will play your part.” Phillip’s hands curl into fists at his sides. “And if I refuse?” Eleanor steps closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Then you will regret it.” A chill runs down Phillip’s spine. His mother has never been one for empty threats. Phillip exhales slowly, his gaze flickering to the towering windows as if searching for an escape. “And what of my heart?” Queen Eleanor rises gracefully, smoothing the folds of her gown. She places a gentle but unyielding hand on his shoulder. “A heart can learn, my son. Just as a throne must be earned, love can be cultivated.” Phillip stares at the table, his fingers tightening into fists. The Queen gives him one last lingering look before stepping away. “Prepare yourself,” she says as she walks toward the door. “Your future is already written.” The heavy door swings shut behind her, leaving Phillip in a suffocating silence. He grips the edge of the table, his breath unsteady. Then— A soft creak. Phillip’s head snaps up. Someone is standing just beyond the doorway, hidden in the shadows. Watching. Listening. His heart pounds. Who else knows? And more importantly… what are they planning to do with what they just heard?