BETROTHED TO THE ARROGANT PRINCE-HIS UNTAMED WARRIOR QUEEN

✷✷✷SILVARA✷✷⁠✷

"Absolutely not."

Princess Adrienne didn't bother looking up from the blade she was sharpening, the whetstone singing against steel in steady, furious strokes. The late afternoon sun slanted through the armory windows, catching on metal and dust motes, but she kept her focus on the sword. Anything to avoid looking at her father's face.

"Adrienne..."

"I said no." The blade gleamed as she lifted it, examining the edge with a critical eye. Perfect. Sharp enough to split a hair. Sharp enough to cut through whatever ridiculous notion her father had brought into her sanctuary this time. "I'm not attending another gods-damned ball, I'm not entertaining some visiting lord's son, and I'm certainly not..."

"You're getting married."

The words landed like a blade between her ribs.

Adrienne's hand stilled. Slowly...so slowly she lowered the sword and finally met her father's gaze. King Aldric stood in the doorway of the armory, looking every one of his sixty years. The afternoon light was unkind to him, highlighting the gray in his beard, the deep lines carved around his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands he thought she hadn't noticed.

He looked tired, he looked old and he certainly looked like a man who'd already made up his mind.

"Say that again." Her voice came out deadly quiet, the calm before a storm. "Because I'm quite certain I misheard you."

Aldric stepped further into the armory, his boots heavy on the stone floor. "You heard me perfectly well."

"Then you've lost your mind." Adrienne set the sword down with deliberate care, though every muscle in her body screamed to hurl it across the room. She stood, her leather trousers and simple tunic streaked with oil and sweat. No silks. No jewels. Nothing that marked her as anything but what she was, a knight. "I'm not some broodmare to be sold off."

"You're my daughter. My only child. My heir."

"Exactly." She crossed her arms, chin lifted. "Which means Silvara needs me here fighting and leading. Not locked away in some foreign castle playing the dutiful wife."

"Silvara needs you alive." Her father's voice cracked, just slightly, and she hated the sound of it. She hated the fear beneath his words.

"Three kingdoms have fallen in as many months, Adrienne. Kingdoms without strong alliances. Without heirs who can defend them."

"I can defend us..."

"Against how many armies?" Aldric's shout echoed off the stone walls, startling them both into silence. He took a breath, steadying himself. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. Resigned. "I'm old, my girl. I can't ride into battle anymore. I can't protect you and I won't watch you die like..."

"Don't." The word came out sharp as the blade at her side. "Don't you dare finish that sentence."

Her mother's ghost hung between them, unspoken but ever-present.

Aldric's shoulders sagged. "The betrothal is already arranged. Prince Orion of Camelot will...."

"Camelot?"

Adrienne barked out a bitter laugh. "Of course. The mighty warrior kingdom. And what, this prince needs a bride so badly he'll settle for a 'feral princess' from a nothing kingdom?"

"He needs an heir before he can take his throne. You need protection. It's... strategic."

"Strategic." Adrienne's laugh was all edges. "So I'm a broodmare. A breeding machine with a crown. How flattering."

"You're twisting my words..."

"Am I?" She stalked toward him, fury blazing in her hazel eyes. "Some prince needs to make heirs, so you hand me over like livestock. I'm a knight, Father. I should be treated as one with all the respect my title have."

"You're a princess!" Aldric's voice rose to match hers. "An heiress! The future of Silvara depends on you!"

"I'm twenty-one years old!"

"Your mother was nineteen when we married."

The air went cold.

Adrienne's jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached, her hazel eyes burning ambers of anger. When she spoke again, her voice was deadly quiet. "My mother is dead. And I won't follow her into the grave by playing the obedient little wife."

Something crumpled in her father's face...grief and rage and desperation all tangled together. "No. You'll follow her by playing the reckless knight who refuses to see reason."

"Better die a warrior death than a prisoner."

"There is no better!" His roar shook dust from the rafters. "There's just death, Adrienne. Final and permanent. And I will not...I cannot bury you too."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Adrienne stood there, chest heaving, fists clenched at her sides. Every instinct screamed at her to fight, to argue, to rage against the cage closing around her throat.

But her father looked shattered. Broken in a way that had nothing to do with age and everything to do with loss. She hated him for it and she hated him for loving her enough to trap her.

"When?" The word scraped out like gravel.

"Four weeks." Aldric's voice was hollow now, defeated. "After we deal with the threat at the northern border."

"Then I'll deal with it." She turned back to her workbench, dismissing him with the rigid line of her spine. "And when I do, don't expect me to thank you for selling me like cattle."

"Adrienne..."

"Get out."

He didn't move, he just stared at her with the emotions she hated.

"Just go father"

The door closed behind him with a hollow thud. Adrienne stood perfectly still, staring at her reflection in the polished blade. Blonde curls escaping her braid. Hazel eyes burning with unshed fury. A princess who looked more like a soldier.

Four weeks.

Four weeks until she became Prince Orion of Camelot's unwanted bride.

She picked up the whetstone again, dragging it across steel in harsh, angry strokes.

༆

[KING ALDRIC'S CHAMBER]

The room was dark when he walked in, guards stationed outside. He sat on his armchair and reached for a black leather book. His fingers traced the cover slowly.

"I promised you Elowen,I promised I'd keep your daughter safe."

He dropped the book with a sigh. "This is the only way"

✷✷✷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.