✷✷✷CAMELOT✷✷✷

"You must be kidding me, Father."

Prince Orion stood in the war room, arms crossed over his chest, every inch of him radiating barely controlled fury. The afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the massive oak table that dominated the space. Maps and battle plans cluttered its surface territories marked in red, supply routes traced in ink, the careful choreography of war laid bare. But none of it mattered now. Not when his father had just dropped a gods-damned bomb into his life.

King Matthias of Camelot didn't even look up from the letter he was reading, his weathered fingers tracing the wax seal. "I assure you, I am perfectly serious."

"A marriage." Orion's voice dropped to something dangerously quiet, the kind of tone that made seasoned warriors take a step back. "To some spoiled little princess from a kingdom I could conquer before breakfast."

"Silvara may be small," his father said, finally setting down the parchment, "but it's one of the wealthiest kingdoms in the realm. And strategically positioned along the eastern trade routes." 

He met Orion's gaze, steel meeting steel. "You need an heir before you can take this throne, or have you forgotten the terms of succession?"

Orion's hands curled into fists at his sides. "I haven't forgotten anything."

"Then you understand why this is necessary."

"Necessary?" A bitter laugh escaped him. "There are a dozen princesses who'd crawl over broken glass for the chance to marry me. Why her? Why some nobody from a kingdom that can't even defend itself?"

"Because Aldric is my oldest friend." Matthias's voice hardened. "Because his kingdom is vulnerable, and three territories have already fallen to raiders in the past four months, an alliance with Silvara strengthens our eastern border and secures trade routes that keep Camelot wealthy." He leaned forward, palms flat on the table. "And because I am your king, and I have made this decision. Your personal preferences are irrelevant."

"My personal preferences?" Orion's voice rose, months of frustration finally breaking through his iron control. "This is my life you're bartering away like I'm some... some political pawn!"

"You are a prince." His father's fist came down on the table, rattling ink pots and sending a compass skittering across the map. "You have been groomed for this since birth. You've commanded armies since you were sixteen. You've never lost a battle. Kingdoms tremble at the mention of your name." He straightened, and suddenly he looked every one of his fifty-eight years tired, worn, but unyielding. "And now you will do what every ruler before you has done. You will marry for the good of your kingdom."

"I don't care about Aldric's problems," Orion bit out. "I'm not some hired sword you can deploy to prop up failing kingdoms. If Silvara can't defend itself, maybe it doesn't deserve to survive."

The words hung in the air, cold and brutal.

Matthias's expression went glacial. "That is enough."

"Is it?" Orion pushed away from the table, pacing like a caged animal. "You're asking me to chain myself to some spoiled brat who probably faints at the sight of blood. Who's probably never held a sword in her pampered little life. Who..."

"But she's very beautiful."

Both men froze, turning toward the doorway where Queen Helena stood, serene and unruffled despite the testosterone-fueled argument she'd just walked into. She glided forward, her silk skirts whispering against the stone floor, emerald green fabric catching the light. Her silver-blonde hair was swept up in an elegant twist, and her blue eyes held that particular brand of maternal patience that could weather any storm.

"The most beautiful princess across all the lands, they say." She came to stand beside her husband, placing a gentle hand on his arm, a gesture that somehow managed to be both comforting and commanding. "Hair like spun gold, and eyes that change color with her moods. Surely that counts for something, darling?"

Orion stared at his mother, incredulous. "Beauty? You think I care about..."

"What?"

The outraged shriek came from the corridor, followed by the rapid click of heeled boots on stone. Princess Giselle swept into the room like a storm in silk and fury, all dark curls and flashing eyes. At twenty years old, she was the terror of the Camelot court, beautiful, brilliant, and utterly unwilling to play by anyone's rules but her own. The gown she wore was expensive enough to fund a small army, but she wore it like armor, her chin tilted at that particular angle that meant someone was about to get eviscerated. She planted her hands on her hips, fixing their mother with an indignant glare that could have melted steel.

 "Mother. Mother. I thought you said I was the most beautiful princess in all the lands. Are you taking it back now? Just like that?"

Helena's lips twitched. "Giselle.."

"No, no, I want to know." Giselle's smile was sharp enough to draw blood, a mirror of her brother's when he was in a mood to destroy. "Am I being dethroned by some foreign princess Orion hasn't even met? Some little nobody from a tiny kingdom? How utterly devastating for me. Should I go throw myself off the nearest tower, or will a dramatic fainting spell suffice?"

"This isn't a joke," Orion growled, shooting his sister a look that would have sent most people running.

Giselle just smiled wider. "Oh, I know it's not a joke. Jokes are funny. This..." she gestured at him, at their father, at the whole ridiculous situation "...is a tragedy. But watching you throw a tantrum like a spoiled child who's been told he can't have dessert? That's definitely entertainment."

"I am not throwing a tantrum..."

"You're literally pacing and snarling like a feral dog."

"I'm expressing my displeasure with..."

"Throwing. A. Tantrum." Giselle smiled.

"Honestly, Orion, you're twenty-seven years old. You've slaughtered entire armies. You've made grown men weep with fear. And you're falling apart because Father wants you to marry a pretty princess? It's almost embarrassing."

Orion took a step toward his sister, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "When it's your turn to be sold off like livestock, we'll see how you..."

"You will be traveling to Silvara."

King Matthias's voice cut through the brewing sibling war like an executioner's axe... final, absolute, and completely devoid of mercy. He picked up the letter again, his weathered hands steady as he scanned the elegant script. "Aldric has sent word. They expect an attack on their northern border within the week. His armies are mobilizing as we speak."

The room went very, very quiet.

Orion stopped pacing, his warrior's instincts suddenly on high alert. "An attack?"

"Lord Garrick of the Ashlands has been consolidating power." Matthias set down the letter, his expression grim. "He's already absorbed three smaller territories. Aldric believes Silvara is next on his list."

"Then let him send his own armies..."

"His armies are half the size of ours, and he's old, Orion. Too old to lead a campaign." The king's gaze was steady, unyielding. "I will not stand by while my oldest friend's kingdom burns. You will leave at first light. You will lead our forces to Silvara's aid. And you will ensure that Princess Adrienne survives long enough to become your wife."

Orion's mind was already calculating troop movements, supply lines, and the fastest route to Silvara's northern border. But beneath the tactical planning, fury still simmered. 

"She probably doesn't even know which end of a sword to hold. I'll be babysitting some terrified princess while her father's men do the actual fighting."

"Then you'll have nothing to worry about, will you?" Matthias turned back to his maps, effectively dismissing him. "Make sure she survives. That's all I ask."

"That's all you ask," Orion repeated, his voice hollow with disbelief. "As if my entire future isn't being decided by..."

"Your future was decided the day you were born a prince." His father didn't look up. "You've always known this. You've always known that duty comes before desire. Before freedom. Before whatever romantic notions you've been harboring about..."

"This has nothing to do with romance," Orion snapped. "This has to do with choice. With having some say in my own gods-damned life."

"You have no choice." Matthias finally looked up, and there was something almost sympathetic in his eyes. Almost. 

"None of us do. That's what it means to wear a crown, Orion. You, of all people, should understand that by now."

The muscles in Orion's jaw worked, his teeth grinding together hard enough to ache. Every instinct screamed at him to refuse, to walk out, to find Celeste and lose himself in arms that actually wanted him there. In a relationship that made sense. That wasn't built on political necessity and treaty negotiations. But his father's word was law in Camelot. And Orion had never failed an order in his life. He had never walked away from duty, no matter how much it cost him.

"Fine." The word came out cold. Every emotion locked down behind the iron discipline that had made him the most feared warrior in five kingdoms. "I'll save your friend's precious daughter. I'll play the hero. But don't expect me to like her."

"I don't expect you to like her, Orion." His father's voice softened, just slightly. "I expect you to marry her. There's a difference."

Across the room, Giselle let out a very unladylike snort. "Oh, this is going to be so entertaining. Can I come? Please? I'll behave. I promise."

"No," Orion and both his parents said in unison.

His sister pouted. "You're all terrible. I'm the only interesting person in this family, and you never let me do anything fun."

"Your idea of fun and mine differ wildly," Orion muttered, turning on his heel and stalking toward the door. His mother's voice stopped him at the threshold, gentle but implacable.

"Orion?"

He didn't turn around.. If he looked at her, he might actually break.

"What?"

"Try not to terrify the poor girl." Queen Helena's tone held that particular softness she reserved for moments when she was about to say something he wouldn't want to hear. "She's not your enemy, darling. She's probably just as trapped as you are."

"Isn't she?" He glanced back over his shoulder, something dark and bitter twisting in his chest. "She's taking my freedom. She's taking my choice. She's taking the rest of my life and forcing it into a shape I never wanted. Seems like an enemy to me."

He left before anyone could respond, his boots echoing down the corridor like the countdown to an execution.

"Ten gold coins says she hates him on sight."

"Make it twenty," their mother replied, not unkindly. "And I'll take that bet. No one could hate Orion on sight. Give her at least five minutes."

Their father's dry response followed "I'll put fifty on him making her cry within the first conversation."

✷✷✷SIVARA⁠✷✷✷

The northern border of Silvara stretched out before them like a wound in the earth...barren, rocky terrain that offered no cover.

One hundred soldiers.

 That's all Adrienne had managed to rally before her father's advisors started wringing their hands about leaving the capital undefended. One hundred men against an army five times their size.

The odds didn't bother her.

What bothered her was the gods-damned betrothal that kept circling through her mind like a vulture over carrion.

Their camp sprawled across the valley floor just before the boundary markers, a collection of tents and cookfires that seemed almost obscenely cheerful given what awaited them come dawn. 

Knights laughed around the fires, passing wineskins and trading stories like they weren't marching toward their deaths. Like tomorrow wasn't going to paint these rocks red.

Adrienne sat apart from them, perched on a flat boulder that overlooked the camp, her sword across her knees. She'd been cleaning the blade for the past hour...not because it needed it, but because the repetitive motion kept her hands busy and her mind from spiraling into places she couldn't afford to go.

"What's Her Majesty thinking about?"

The voice came from behind her, warm and familiar. Sir Lancelot dropped onto the rock beside her with the easy grace of someone who'd known her since childhood, his own sword slung across his back. He was grinning that crooked grin that usually meant trouble, dark hair falling into darker eyes.

Adrienne's hand tightened on her sword hilt. "Call me that one more time and I'll chop off your head before the enemy armies do it for me."

"Touchy." But Lancelot's grin didn't fade. 

"What did I do to deserve a beheading? I thought we were friends."

"We are friends. Which is why I'm giving you a warning first."

"How generous of you." Sir Leon approached from the opposite side, his movements quieter, more controlled. 

Where Lancelot was all flash and charm, Leon was steady as stone...the kind of knight who inspired confidence just by existing. He settled on Adrienne's other side, creating their familiar triangle. The three of them had been inseparable since they were children playing with wooden swords in the castle yard.

 "Though if you're planning executions, perhaps wait until after the battle? We're rather short on bodies as it is."

"Princess..." Leon started, and Adrienne shot him a look that could have melted steel.

"Not you too, Leon."

He raised his hands in surrender, but his gray eyes were concerned. "You've been up here for hours. The men are starting to worry."

"Let them worry." Adrienne went back to cleaning her already-spotless blade. "Maybe it'll keep them sharp."

Lancelot and Leon exchanged one of those looks...the kind that said they were having an entire conversation without words. It was infuriating.

"All right." Lancelot stretched his legs out, settling in like he had all the time in the world. "What's actually bothering you? And don't say 'nothing,' because I've known you since you were six years old and tried to stab me with a dinner fork."

"You deserved it. You stole my dessert."

"I was eight. And it was one piece of cake."

"It was my cake."

Leon cleared his throat. "Focus, you two."

Adrienne sighed, the sound scraping out of her throat like gravel. For a long moment, she considered keeping it to herself..this new burden, this fresh cage. But these were her brothers in everything but blood. If she couldn't tell them, she couldn't tell anyone.

"My father has chosen to sell me off." The words came out flat, emotionless. "To some stupid, cocky, arrogant prince of Camelot."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then Lancelot sat up so fast he nearly fell off the rock.

 "What?"

"You heard me."

"Prince Orion of Camelot?" Lancelot's voice had gone up an octave. "The Prince Orion? The Undefeated? The..."

"Yes, that one." Adrienne's jaw clenched. "Though his name sounds like Onions to me. Prince Onions of Camelot. Has a nice ring to it."

Despite everything, Leon's mouth twitched. "Adrienne..."

"Don't." She stood abruptly, sheathing her sword with more force than necessary. "Don't tell me it's for the good of the kingdom. Don't tell me it's my duty. I've heard it all from my father, and I'm not interested in hearing it again."

"I was going to say," Leon continued quietly, "that I'm sorry. That's not fair to you."

The genuine sympathy in his voice nearly undid her. Adrienne turned away, staring out at the darkening horizon where tomorrow's battle waited. "Nothing about this is fair. But when has fairness ever mattered to kings?"

"At least you'll be a queen," Lancelot offered, then immediately winced at the look she gave him. "Or... not. Forget I said anything. I'm an idiot."

"The first true thing you've said all evening."

Before anyone could respond, a shout echoed across the camp...sharp, urgent, slicing through the evening's false peace like a blade through flesh.

"We're under attack! The armies are here!"

Time seemed to slow and speed up simultaneously. Adrienne's hand was on her sword before her mind fully processed the words. Around the camp, the laughter died, replaced by the organized chaos of soldiers grabbing weapons, donning helmets, forming ranks.

"Already?" Leon was on his feet, his sword singing free of its scabbard. "They weren't supposed to reach us until dawn."

"Guess they don't follow schedules." Lancelot's grin was back, but sharper now, edged with something wild. "Shall we?"

Adrienne didn't answer. She was already moving.

The first clash of steel on steel rang out like a death knell.

They came from the north in a dark tide...Lord Garrick's forces, five hundred strong, crashing against Silvara's hundred like a wave against a breakwater. In the dying light, their armor gleamed like beetle shells, their war cries splitting the air.

Adrienne met them with a roar of her own.

Her sword found flesh before her enemy fully caught up, the familiar shock of impact traveling up her arm. A man went down, clutching his throat. She didn't wait to watch him fall. Already moving, already turning, her blade singing through the air to meet the next attacker. And the next. And the next.

This was what she was made for.

Blood sprayed across her face, hot and copper-sharp. She barely noticed. Her world had narrowed to the space around her sword.parry, strike, spin, duck, thrust. The brutal choreography of survival. An enemy blade whistled past her ear, close enough to feel the wind of its passage. She dropped low, swept her leg out, sent the swordsman sprawling. Her blade found his chest before he could rise.

"Left!" Leon's voice, sharp as a whip crack.

She spun and blocked, the impact jarred her bones but she held. Shoved back. The enemy soldier stumbled, and Lancelot was there, his sword a silver blur. The man didn't get up.

Back to back now...the three of them forming a triangle, just like they'd practiced a thousand times. Moving in sync without needing words, each covering the others' blind spots.

An arrow hissed past her shoulder. Too close.

Adrienne grabbed a fallen spear, pivoted, and hurled it with all her strength. It caught an archer in the chest, lifting him clean off his feet before gravity remembered to claim him. He hit the ground with a wet thud that she felt more than heard over the chaos.

Brutal.

Time became meaningless..measured only in heartbeats and blade strikes, in the burning of muscles and the copper taste of blood in the air. Dawn crawled over the horizon, painting the carnage in shades of gold and crimson. Bodies littered the ground, friend and foe alike, the earth drinking deep of what they offered.

Adrienne's arms screamed with exhaustion but she couldn't stop. One of Garrick's soldiers came at her with a war axe, the weapon heavy and brutal. She ducked under the first swing, felt the wind of it ruffle her hair. Came up inside his guard. Her sword found the gap between his breastplate and pauldron, sliding home with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this dance too many times.

He fell, and she was already moving to the next threat.

But there were too many. Gods, there were too many.

She caught a glimpse of her forces...down to seventy-five now, maybe less. They were being overwhelmed, pushed back, drowning in a tide of steel and fury.

A blade sliced across her arm, parting leather and skin with cold efficiency. Pain bloomed, sharp and immediate. Adrienne snarled, pivoted, and brought her sword across in a vicious arc. The enemy soldier's head separated from his shoulders almost lazily, blood fountaining in a crimson spray.

She couldn't afford scars. She wouldn't tolerate them. Her skin had always been flawless, and she'd be damned if she left this battlefield marked.

Another wave of enemies crested the hill.

No. No, they were going to be overrun. They were going to...

The thunder of hooves stopped her heart.

Adrienne spun, sword raised, ready to meet this new threat. But the banner that snapped in the morning wind wasn't Garrick's black raven.

It was the golden lion of Camelot.

"What..."

The knights of Camelot hit Garrick's forces like a hammer blow from the gods themselves. At their head rode a figure on a massive black warhorse, moving through the enemy lines with the casual efficiency of Death taking inventory. His sword was a blur of silver and crimson, and men fell before him like wheat before a scythe.

One. Two. Five. Ten.

He killed ten soldiers without even dismounting, his horse responding to the slightest pressure of his knees while his blade did its brutal work.

Adrienne found herself staring.

The rider's armor was dark steel chased with gold, his helm shaped like a lion's maw. But it was the way he moved that caught her attention...fluid, precise, utterly devastating. He made killing look like an art form.

His gaze swept the battlefield, sharp and assessing. Then stopped on her.

Even across the chaos and carnage, Adrienne felt the weight of that stare. The rider's head tilted slightly, and she knew he'd recognized her. The only woman on the battlefield. The royal crest blazing on her breastplate.

His attention moved on, but not before she saw something that might have been a smirk beneath his helm.

Arrogant bastard.

"The knights of Camelot are here, my lady!" Lancelot appeared at her side, breathing hard, blood streaming from a cut above his eye. They fell into their back-to-back formation automatically, moving in the deadly dance they'd perfected over years. "Your father must have sent word to them!"

"Damn that old man." Adrienne blocked an overhead strike, twisted, brought her elbow up into her attacker's face. Bone crunched. She followed through with her blade, and he crumpled. "I don't need a knight in shining armor to save me."

She ducked under a spear thrust, grabbed the weapon's shaft, and used the wielder's own momentum against him. A quick twist disarmed him. Her sword flashed, and he learned what mercy looked like in its absence.

The Camelot forces were turning the tide. Garrick's soldiers, finding themselves suddenly trapped between two armies, began to break. To flee. The battle raged on for another brutal hour, but the outcome was no longer in doubt.

Finally...finally...the last of the enemy forces retreated over the hill, leaving only corpses and moans behind.

Adrienne stood in the center of the carnage, chest heaving, her armor splattered with blood that was mostly not her own. The cut on her arm burned, but it was shallow. It wouldn't scar if she was careful.

Around her, the survivors of both armies were checking for wounded, stripping the dead of anything useful. The ugly practicality of war's aftermath.

"Gather round!" Her voice cut through the relative quiet, commanding attention even hoarse with exhaustion. "Check for wounded. Strip the dead. We return to Silvara before nightfall."

"My lady." Leon appeared, somehow looking relatively clean despite the carnage. "You should speak with the knights of Camelot. Thank them for their assistance."

Adrienne's jaw clenched hard enough to make her teeth ache. "I never asked for their interference. They can get off my face before I slay one of them as a message to their silly prince."

"Really?" 

The voice came from behind her...deep, calm, with an edge of dark amusement that made her spine snap straight. "That's how you show appreciation for help?"

Adrienne turned slowly, her hand still on her sword hilt.

The man who'd led the Camelot charge stood a few feet away, his helm now removed and tucked under one arm. He was tall...gods, he was tall built like a siege weapon wrapped in muscle and barely contained violence. Dark hair fell across his forehead, still damp with sweat. His eyes were the color of smoke and steel, and they were fixed on her with an intensity that felt almost physical.

A thin white scar cut across his jaw. Battle-earned, obviously. And despite the blood spattering his armor, despite the exhaustion that should have been dragging at him after that fight, he stood there looking almost bored.

Arrogant. Definitely arrogant.

"What?" Adrienne met his gaze without flinching. "Should I lie down and worship you for interfering?"

One dark eyebrow rose. "Worship might be excessive. But 'thank you' is traditional."

"Your Highness, he's the pri...." Lancelot started, voice urgent.

"Shut up, Lance, and get my horse ready." Adrienne didn't break eye contact with the stranger, something hot and defiant burning in her chest. 

"And you tall ugly thing...whoever you are...can tell your prince that he'd better fight this betrothal nonsense. Tell him he'd better not show his ugly face to me, because I'll use his blood to paint my room."

She turned on her heel and stalked away, her spine rigid, every line of her body screaming defiance.

"Did she just call me ugly?"

Orion stood rooted to the spot, watching the princess disappear into the chaos of her troops, and tried to process what had just happened.

She didn't know. She had no idea who he was.

And she'd just called him ugly. To his face. Well, technically to what she thought was his subordinate's face, but still.

"My Lord." Sir Greene appeared at his elbow, his second-in-command and closest friend since childhood. Greene's armor was somehow even bloodier than Orion's, but his weathered face showed only mild concern. "The horses are ready. No wounded among our men. We can reach Camelot by noon tomorrow if we leave within the hour."

Orion barely heard him. His gaze was still locked on the spot where the princess had vanished. "A little thing just called me ugly, and you're standing there calling me 'my Lord,' Greene."

Greene's mouth twitched. "Well. You did just rescue her without asking permission. Some people find that presumptuous."

"Some people should learn gratitude."

"Some people," Greene said carefully, "looked like they were handling themselves fairly well before we arrived."

That was... unfortunately accurate.

Orion had expected a spoiled princess playing at being a knight. What he'd found instead was a warrior who fought like a wounded tigress...vicious, skilled, and utterly fearless. 

He'd watched her take down men twice her size with a combination of speed and brutality that would have made his training masters nod in approval.

She'd grabbed a spear mid-battle and used it to lift a fully armored soldier off the ground before finishing him. Brutal, efficient and Impressive.

And then she'd looked at him with those hazel eyes...currently more gold than green, lit with fury and exhaustion...and told him to get out of her face.

"Too much energy and sass," Orion muttered, "for that tiny body."

"My Lord?"

He shook himself, pulling his attention back to the present.

"Nothing. Let's move out. The sooner we're back in Camelot, the sooner I can figure out how to get out of this marriage."