A DEAL OF HEARTS AND THRONES

Road to ilugo and first encounter

The carriage wheels groaned as they rolled across the uneven roads, carrying Princess Aristine farther from the marble prison of Silvanus. For the first time in years, the horizon stretched wide before her. Forests whispered, rivers glittered, and mountains loomed like guardians of fate. To her escorts, this was a dangerous journey into enemy lands. To Aristine, it was liberation.

At night, when the caravan stopped, Aristine sat by the fire, her violet eyes reflecting the flames. Her Royal Sight stirred, showing her fleeting visions: piles of gold coins, the laughter of strangers, and the shadow of a man with dark eyes. She did not yet know if these were omens or promises, but she clung to them as proof that her destiny was hers to shape.

The soldiers whispered of Ilugo’s warriors, fierce and proud, watching from the shadows. Tension hung heavy, but no attack came. It was as if the land itself was testing her resolve. Aristine did not falter. She had endured years of silence; she could endure this.

Days turned into weeks. The air grew sharper, filled with scents of unfamiliar soil and distant seas. Aristine’s carriage crossed the border, leaving behind the empire that had caged her. Ahead lay Ilugo, the land of her husband‑to‑be.

The capital gates rose tall and imposing, guarded by warriors whose eyes burned with pride. Aristine lifted her chin, her silver hair catching the light. She would not bow. She would not break.

When she finally met Prince Tarkan, the man whispered to be a savage, she braced herself for brutality. Yet what she found was not the monster of rumor. Tarkan was tall, broad‑shouldered, his presence commanding, but his gaze was steady, not cruel. He looked at her not as a fragile pawn, but as someone worth measuring.

Prince Tarkan.

He stood tall, broad‑shouldered, his presence commanding. His dark hair was tousled, his skin bronzed by battle and sun. His eyes, sharp and steady, locked onto hers. Aristine braced herself, expecting cruelty, expecting the savage of rumor. But what she found was something else entirely.

Tarkan’s gaze was not cruel. It was calculating, assessing. He looked at her not as a fragile bride, but as someone worth measuring. Aristine met his eyes without flinching, her violet stare unwavering.

The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken challenge. Finally, Tarkan’s lips curved into the faintest smirk.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said, his voice low, edged with amusement.

Aristine’s reply was calm, deliberate. “Nor are you.”

Their words were few, but the air between them crackled. Aristine realized the rumors had lied. Tarkan was not a beast. He was a warrior — disciplined, intelligent, proud. And perhaps, just perhaps, he could be an ally.

Their first exchange was tense, filled with unspoken challenge. Aristine, determined to prove she was no helpless bride, met his eyes without flinching.

In that moment, Aristine realized the rumors had lied. Tarkan was not a savage beast. He was a warrior, yes, but one with discipline, intelligence, and pride. And perhaps, just perhaps, he could be an ally.

Still, Aristine’s vow echoed in her mind: Forget my husband. I’ll go make money. She would not let affection or fear sway her. Her path was her own, and she would walk it with her head held high.