Kyralia stood at the centre of Westminster Abbey, the grandeur of the chapel casting long shadows in the golden glow of flickering candles. The intricate stonework climbed high into vaulted ceilings, and the air was heavy with the scent of incense. The tomb of Edward the Confessor stood watch a stark reminder of the weight of history that surrounded her. She stood motionless, her heart racing beneath the plain, white dress that clung to her. Though unadorned, the simplicity of her attire only accentuated the natural elegance of her form. Her chestnut hair cascaded in soft curls over her shoulders, framing a face that now bore a carefully crafted smile, one that masked the turmoil beneath.

She hadn't chosen this path. Somehow, amidst the gilded walls and whispered secrets of the royal court, Kyralia had gone from being an observer to being ensnared. Edward I, the reigning King of England, had made her his mistress, but his ambitions ran deeper than mere indulgence. He had decided to claim her fully, to make her his Queen—not out of love, but from a cold, possessive desire. And now, here she was, walking toward a man who saw her not as a partner but as a prize.

The heavy wooden doors creaked open, sending a hushed ripple through the gathered assembly. Every head turned as Kyralia began her solitary walk down the long, crimson aisle. The music swelled—a stately, solemn melody that reverberated through the vast space. She forced herself to breathe, her chest rising and falling in rhythm with the tolling notes. Beneath the translucent veil draped over her face, her lips quirked into a fragile smile, a mask for the tension clenching her jaw.

Her steps echoed faintly on the polished stone floor as she advanced. To either side, rows of finely dressed nobles stood, their gazes fixed upon her. Their expressions ranged from polite curiosity to quiet approval, but not a single face bore the warmth of familiarity. They were strangers. They bowed their heads slightly as she passed, acknowledging not the woman but the title she was about to assume: Queen.

Ahead, at the altar, stood Edward. Clad in ceremonial regalia, he radiated authority. His golden cloak shimmered with every slight movement, and his sword, more a symbol than a weapon, rested at his side. His ginger hair was meticulously styled, the curls framing a face etched with a smirk that betrayed his satisfaction. This was a man who always got what he wanted, and now, he wanted Kyralia.

Her heart sank as she reached him. His eyes bore into hers as though she were a prize he had conquered rather than a person with her own will. She stopped before him, tilting her head upward to meet his gaze. Edward was tall, and imposing, and though his presence might have inspired awe in others, to Kyralia it only served to tighten the knot of resistance within her.

With a flourish, Edward reached out, his fingers grasping the edge of her veil. In one swift motion, he lifted it, throwing the delicate fabric behind her. The crowd stirred faintly, murmurs rippling through the chapel at the sight of her unveiled face. She held her composure, refusing to betray the storm within.

Edward smirked again, this time with a touch of triumph. His expression said it all—this wasn't love, and it certainly wasn't respect. It was possession.

Kyralia swallowed hard, her mind racing. Her magic was just beneath the surface, an ever-present force she had promised herself not to use. Not here. Not now. But as Edward stared down at her, she couldn't help but wonder how long she could keep that promise in the face of the life that awaited her.

"You look beautiful," Edward said, his voice smooth and commanding. Kyralia forced a smile, the curve of her lips carefully masking the resentment beneath. She didn't want this marriage, didn't want him. She regretted ever allowing herself to be ensnared as his mistress, but at the time, something about him had drawn her in. Or perhaps, it wasn't him at all—it was the longing glance of another, someone bound by duty and armour, a knight she could never have.

"Please be seated," the priest announced, his voice echoing through the cavernous chapel. The congregation obeyed, the rustling of fine fabrics filling the air as they settled into their seats.

The ceremony began, the solemn words of the priest weaving an illusion of unity and devotion. Kyralia recited her vows, her voice steady, though each word felt like a chain tightening around her. Beside her, Edward spoke his lines with ease, his tone dripping with confidence. To the gathered audience, it was a scene of perfect union. But inside, Kyralia knew it was a farce.

"I do," she said at last, her voice betraying no hint of the bitterness she swallowed with the words.

"By the power vested in me, you may kiss the bride," the priest declared, his tone booming with finality. Edward wasted no time. He seized Kyralia by the waist, pulling her forcefully against him. His lips crashed against hers in a kiss that was as much a display of dominance as it was tradition. The crowd erupted in applause, their cheers reverberating off the stone walls in a deafening roar of approval.

Kyralia moved her lips against his, just enough to play the part. But inside, she felt nothing but suffocation. The cheers of the onlookers were like daggers, each one driving home the reality of her situation.

The ceremony ended, and Edward's grin widened with triumph. To the world, Kyralia was now Queen of England. But within her, the title felt hollow, a crown made not of gold but of chains.

............................

Kyralia paced nervously in the King's chambers, her bare feet brushing against the cool stone floor. Weeks had passed since the wedding, a whirlwind of tours and appearances across England as the new Queen was introduced to the kingdom. Now, finally, they had returned, and it was the night she had been quietly dreading—their wedding night. The large bed dominated the centre of the room, draped with delicate, sheer curtains that seemed to signal the intimacy expected of the evening. The white lace gown Kyralia wore, revealing in ways that made her uneasy, had been chosen by the King himself.

A sudden knock at the heavy wooden door startled her, breaking her restless pacing. The sound echoed through the chamber, commanding her attention. She paused, her eyes darting toward the door. It wasn't her husband—he wouldn't knock. He would have entered without hesitation. Another knock followed this one softer but no less firm, sending a ripple of curiosity through her.

Kyralia hesitated, then moved toward the door, the flowing lace of her gown trailing behind her. She gripped the cold iron handle, her fingers trembling slightly, and pulled the door open.

Standing before her was a man, his presence commanding yet familiar. His rugged features were softened by a short, trimmed beard, and his shoulder-length brown hair framed his face, moving slightly as he shifted. His hazel eyes met hers, their intensity tempered by a warmth that made her breath catch. He was clad in armour—chainmail and dark leather—and the contrast between his hardened appearance and the softness of his gaze left her momentarily speechless.

A smile began to form on Kyralia's lips, unbidden but welcome, as the weight of the evening seemed to lift slightly. The man returned the gesture, his expression gentle yet sincere. For the first time that night, Kyralia felt a flicker of comfort amidst her unease.

"Armin," Kyraila said breathlessly, her voice a mix of surprise and confusion. A smile tugged at her lips, but her tone was filled with shock. "What are you—"

"I had to see you," Armin interrupted, his voice low but urgent. Without waiting for a response, he pushed past her and entered the chamber. Kyralia quickly glanced over her shoulder, scanning the stone corridor for any signs of guards. Not seeing anyone, she hurriedly closed the door with a loud thud, then turned to face him—only to find he was standing far too close. The proximity was so intimate she could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin, sending a shiver down her spine.

"But if he finds us—" she began, her voice trembling with anxiety, "we'll be executed." She knew the consequences of their actions all too well. They were playing a dangerous game, especially on this night—the night she was meant to be with the King.

Armin didn't flinch. "I don't care if he finds us," he said, his voice raw with determination. "I can't bear the thought of losing you to him." There was bitterness in his words, a deep sense of injustice. "Let's run away," he added, his hands reaching for hers. He gripped her wrists tightly, his eyes searching hers with an intensity that sent her heart racing. The idea of escaping with him, of leaving everything behind to start fresh, was intoxicating. Kyralia felt her pulse quicken at the thought of living a life without the King, without the expectations that had been forced upon her.

But then reality hit her like a cold wind. She would never have the life she dreamed of, not with Armin. He would age, and become ill—she would outlive him. The thought made her stomach turn.

"What troubles you?" Armin asked gently, his eyes searching her face as he noticed the change in her expression. He could sense something was wrong, that there was more to her than she had revealed.

Kyralia took a deep breath, trying to steady her racing heart. "There are things you do not know," she said quietly, her voice thick with emotion. "Things that would make you look at me differently—things I can not even begin to explain." She pulled her hands from his, turning away from him as she walked toward the window. The sunlight filtered through the stained glass, casting colourful shadows across the stone floor. The beauty of the glass was lost on her as her mind raced.

Armin's gaze softened, but concern flickered across his features as he watched her. His brow furrowed, his concern growing as he realized there was far more to her story than she had ever shared.

Armin watched Kyraila closely, his eyes never leaving her face, waiting for her to speak. She could feel the weight of his gaze on the back of her head, but she refused to turn around, unsure if she was ready to face him with the truth. The pressure mounted inside her, her heart racing at the thought of revealing who she truly was. Deep down, she knew she had to confess. The lie had gone on long enough, but she feared his reaction, knowing how everyone else had reacted when they found out.

"I did not marry for love," Kyraila said, her voice filled with regret as she abruptly turned to face Armin. She took a breath, deciding at that moment to lie, to keep the dangerous truth hidden. "I was in a situation I could not foresee... and marrying that pig was a mistake," she spat, her voice dripping with disdain as she recalled her wedding to Edward. The thought of it sickened her.

Armin took a step closer, sensing his chance. "Then run away with me," he said urgently, his hand reaching for hers once again. "Leave all of this behind, and we can ride north, and live the life we have always talked about." His words were filled with conviction, and there was a fire in his eyes that made her heart ache. This was their moment, and she had to make a choice now—before it was too late.

A long, tense silence passed before Kyraila spoke again, her voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside her. "Get the horses," she said with a soft smile, her decision made. Armin's face lit up at her response, and without warning, he pulled her into a kiss. His lips were warm and urgent against hers, and she felt a flutter in her stomach—something she had never felt with Edward. It was a feeling of freedom, of possibility, and it made her heart race.

But before the kiss could deepen, the heavy double doors of the chamber burst open with a loud bang. The sound startled them, and they pulled apart, their eyes locking in a moment of shared panic. Edward, flanked by several guards, stormed into the room, his gaze immediately falling on the two of them.

"I should have known," Edward sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "You little whore." His words stung, but Armin, filled with fury, reacted without hesitation. In an instant, his sword was drawn, the tip aimed directly at the King's throat.

Edward sneered, his eyes narrowing. "Bite your tongue," Armin hissed, his voice low and filled with venom. He didn't care about loyalty anymore—his only focus was protecting Kyraila.

"Stand down, or she dies," Edward growled, his eyes never leaving Armin as he gestured to the guards. One of them grabbed Kyraila roughly, pressing a sword against her back. She could feel the cold edge of the blade digging into her skin, and a chill ran through her. The situation was spiralling out of control, and Armin knew he had to act carefully. As much as he wanted to drive his sword through Edward's chest, he couldn't risk Kyraila's life.

With a deep, frustrated sigh, Armin's grip on the sword loosened, and the weapon fell to the ground with a soft clatter. The guards immediately seized it, and within seconds, Armin was restrained by two soldiers, their strong hands locking around his arms, forcing him to stand still.

Edward's voice rang out, his anger building. "I did not want to believe it," he shouted, his words echoing through the room. "The rumours, the deception, the sneaking around in my own palace!" He was fuming, but Kyraila stood her ground, unshaken by his fury.

"You did not marry me for love," she shot back, her voice steady but biting. "You married me for greed." Her words hung in the air like a challenge, and Edward's laughter filled the room—deep, mocking, and hollow.

Armin growled, fighting against the guards that held him. "You bastard," he snarled through clenched teeth. He knew now, in his heart, that the King had known all along, and had allowed the affair to continue.

"You knew," Kyraila said softly, the realization dawning on her. She had missed all the signs and thought their sneaking around was always too easy. But she hadn't wanted to reveal her powers, hadn't wanted to expose herself. She had tried to play by their rules, but it was clear now that she had been deceived.

"It is my palace after all," Edward said with a smug grin, his tone laced with superiority. His words were meant to show dominance, to remind them of his control.

Kyraila and Armin exchanged a glare, their hatred for the King evident in their eyes. They were trapped now, and whatever came next, they would have to face together. But what that would be, neither of them could predict.

*******