Steel and Silk

The Iron Hand

Althea hovered on the threshold, her hand curling around the doorframe for just a second too long. Every instinct told her to leave before she could be pulled any deeper into whatever scheme waited on the other side. But leaving had never been her choice, not really.

The heavy oak doors creaked open, and Althea stepped into the cold, dimly lit room. The air smelled faintly of parchment, wax, and her father's favorite wine—an aroma she'd grown to associate with bad news. The king sat behind his desk, slouched in his chair, a man carrying the weight of a kingdom on his back. A few high-ranking courtiers hovered at the edges of the room, but it was the knight standing by the door that caught Althea's attention.

She was tall—much taller than Althea—her armor dull from travel but meticulously maintained. A sword hung at her hip, and her gloved hands rested behind her back in a stance of perfect discipline. The knight's face was unreadable, all sharp angles and stillness, like a statue carved from stone. When their eyes briefly met, Althea was struck by the sheer emptiness in them—cold, calculating, and distant. She immediately disliked her.

"Sit," her father said, without looking up from the papers scattered across his desk.

Althea didn't move. "What is this about?" she demanded.

The king finally raised his head, his expression as hard as the marble walls surrounding them. "You will marry Prince Gerant of Rithmar within the year."

The words struck her like a slap, knocking the air from her lungs. "What?"

The courtiers shuffled awkwardly at her outburst, but the knight by the door didn't flinch.

Her father continued, voice cold and matter-of-fact. "The negotiations with Rithmar have failed. War is imminent unless we secure this alliance. Your marriage will do what treaties could not." He leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk. "This is your duty."

My duty. Of course it was marriage. It was always marriage. A princess's duty, they called it—though it felt more like selling livestock. Althea's nails dug into her palms, but she didn't flinch. "So this is my punishment," she said bitterly. "For the treaty you couldn't hold together."

The king's lips pressed into a thin line. "This is your responsibility," he corrected. "And if you refuse, people will die."

His words dropped like stones into the silence.

She wanted to scream at him, to throw his precious papers off the desk and burn the whole room to ash. But years of training held her still. Instead, she forced a bitter smile onto her lips. "You can't do this."

"You'll find that I can." Her father's gaze didn't waver. "It's time you learned what it means to be a princess."

Something heavy lodged in her chest—a mixture of anger, frustration, and something darker, colder. Her pulse pounded in her ears, hot and fast, the urge to lash out coiling tight inside her. She could feel it rising—sharp words ready to tear from her throat, hands twitching with the need to do something. But what good would it do? Words wouldn't stop this.

Not here. Not with him.

She knew, deep down, that she couldn't change his mind. The decision had already been made long before she'd stepped into the room.

She stepped forward, deciding defiance anyway, and planting both hands on the desk. "I will not go."

The king's eyes, dark and unyielding, met hers without a flicker of emotion. "You will," he said quietly, "if you care at all for the lives this marriage will save."

For a moment, the room fell into silence, thick with tension.

"You expect me to believe this?" Althea said, crossing her arms. "War is on our doorstep, and your grand solution is to marry me off to the first prince with a half-decent title?"