Thorns & Daggers

Chapter 1

The grand hall was suffocating.

Golden chandeliers cast a warm glow over the polished marble floors, their flickering candlelight making shadows dance along the towering columns. Every noble in attendance had their eyes on her, whispering behind jeweled hands, waiting to see how the princess would react to meeting the man she was promised to.

Elizabeth Hawthorne, Princess of the Kingdom of Eldoria, held her chin high. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her gown, the silk cool and smooth beneath her touch. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her falter. Not when she was about to meet him.

A pair of heavy doors creaked open at the end of the hall, and the crowd shifted, parting like the sea. 

Prince Elias D'Amiran stepped inside.

Lizzie had heard his name whispered in war rooms and spoken with bitter resentment in her father's court. She had imagined what he would look like—cold, ruthless, the mirror image of the man who had stolen her mother from her. But she had never prepared for this.

The first thing she noticed was how tall he was, how he carried himself with a quiet, almost predatory confidence. He wasn't some boy in ill-fitting silks playing at being royalty. He was every bit a prince of war. Broad shoulders, sharp cheekbones, and dark eyes that held no warmth.

He wore the colors of his kingdom—deep crimson and black, the same colors the soldiers had worn when they invaded her home all those years ago. The same colors that had painted the floor of the throne room when her mother fell.

Lizzie's stomach twisted.

Then his gaze found hers.

Her breath hitched.

His eyes. Gods above, his eyes.

They were the exact same shade as his father's. The same piercing, merciless gaze she had stared into as her mother's body crumpled to the floor, blood pooling at her feet. The same eyes that had burned themselves into her memory when she was too young, too small, too helpless to do anything but watch.

The weight of it crashed into her like a wave. The polished marble beneath her seemed to tilt. For a moment, she was six years old again, standing frozen in the throne room, her mother's body growing cold beside her.

She wasn't six anymore. She wasn't that helpless little girl.

Lizzie forced herself to breathe, to move—to look away.

She willed her shoulders not to tremble as she tore her gaze from his, fixing her stare somewhere—anywhere—other than his face. The tension in the room thickened, as if the very walls could sense the weight of the moment.

Elias stood motionless for a beat longer than necessary, then tilted his head slightly. A slow smirk tugged at his lips.

It wasn't kind.

It was the kind of smirk that said, You're afraid of me.

Lizzie swallowed against the lump in her throat.

She had faltered. She had let him see it. And she would never let it happen again.

She swore to herself then and there:

She would never look into his eyes again.

༶•୨♡୧•༶

The formal introductions passed in a blur. Her father spoke of peace, of unity, of a future where their two kingdoms would be bound not by bloodshed, but by marriage. Lizzie barely heard him. She kept her gaze on the stone floor, her hands folded neatly in her lap as she sat beside her brother at the long banquet table.

Elias was seated across from her.

The feast had been prepared with exquisite care. Silver platters carried roasted pheasant, golden-crusted pies, and steaming bowls of seasoned vegetables. The scent of honeyed wine and fresh-baked bread filled the hall, mingling with the low hum of conversation and the occasional chime of silverware against porcelain.

Servants moved between the guests, refilling goblets and setting down fresh dishes. Laughter rang out from one end of the table where a group of nobles spoke in hushed, conspiratorial tones. Lizzie knew the subject of their amusement. Her.

She could feel Elias watching her, waiting for her to meet his gaze again. But she wouldn't. She refused.

"Princess Elizabeth."

His voice was smooth, edged with something unreadable. The sound of it sent a shiver down her spine, but she lifted her goblet to her lips as if she hadn't heard him.

A quiet chuckle. "Ignoring me already?"

The way he said it—so amused, so unaffected—ignited something in her, something sharp and bitter. Good. Let him think she was childish, let him think she was cold. It was better than whatever cruel amusement he seemed to find in this arrangement.

Her brother shifted beside her, clearing his throat. "The princess has had a long day."

Elias hummed, lifting his own goblet. "Of course. Preparing for a wedding must be exhausting."

The words were meant to taunt her. And damn him, they did.

Lizzie clenched her hands beneath the table. She would not rise to his bait. She would not give him the satisfaction.

A musician struck a note on the lute, shifting the attention of the guests. A noblewoman near the head of the table proposed a toast, her voice rich with false sincerity as she spoke of unity and new beginnings. Goblets were raised.

Elias lifted his in her direction, eyes gleaming with something that made her blood heat. She did not lift hers in return.

She had made a promise to herself.

She would not look into his eyes. She would not let him see her break.

But deep down, she knew this was only the beginning.