Storm Book 1 of Wings of Mist Series

"I will not marry him!"

"You have no choice."

Rose's glare could have burned a hole through stone, her eyes flashing with an intensity that rivaled a summer storm. Anger pulsed beneath her pale skin, splotching her cheeks with a vibrant red. She clenched her jaw, her hands balled into fists so tight that her knuckles turned white.

"You can marry the princess," she shot back, desperation tightening her voice. "Let her come here, and I'll remain free."

Bran ran a hand through his tousled gold hair, agitation radiating off him like heat from a furnace. "She's already betrothed to someone else. And frankly, I have no desire for a dark fae to sit on our throne."

Rose's heart raced, a frantic pulse echoing in her ears. "But don't you think he would be the same?" she exclaimed, a hint of panic threading through her words. "When he takes the throne, I'd be made queen. The dark fae would surely love that. They will kill me!"

Bran rolled his eyes. A mixture of exasperation and concern. "They can't kill you. You're the sister of the King. If you die, it fractures the truce, and we plunge back into war."

The weight of his words pressed on her chest, crushing any flicker of hope within her. The rosy silks enveloping her felt heavy and dull, as if the fabric itself mourned her impending fate.

"There are other ways of dying, you know," she whispered, her gaze glued to the flawless marble floor beneath her. Her reflection stared back, a vision of beauty trapped in despair—sunshine hair cascading like a waterfall down her back, soon to be cut away should she become the dark fae's bride.

The thought alone made her shudder, waves of humiliation crashing over her.

"What would you have me do?" Bran's voice trembled with a mixture of concern and frustration, his gaze steady yet pleading. "We've been at war for seven years. Father is gone. People are starving. Our soldiers are drained. We need a truce, Rose."

The weight of his words wrapped around her heart, and she swallowed hard, emerald eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "But why must I be the one to sacrifice everything? Can't we find another way?"

Bran looked away, the lines of worry etching deeper into his face. "They have the upper hand," he said, his voice a reluctant admission. "Their position is stronger, Rose. They dictate the terms." Heavy silence hung between them, thick with despair. "Anova can't endure another war. We're barely holding on."

Rose pressed her hands to her face, the warmth and dampness of her tears seeping through her fingers as her body trembled with sobs that echoed off the walls like a haunting wail. Each breath was a ragged, uneven sigh, as if she could expel the fear coiling in her chest.

Bran, mirroring her despair, let his head sink into his hands. His throne of gold, studded with opals and jade, caught the flickering light in cruel bursts. The symbols of his reign weighed him down, pressing him further into the depths of responsibility he'd just understood. Every jewel added to his burden, each one a constant reminder of the crushing expectations that threatened to drown him.

In the quiet aftermath of his ascension, why the dark fae demanded Rose remained an unanswered mystery—an enigma that gnawed at him day and night. She was only eighteen, still his little sister in his eyes. The thought of her with the fae prince, a man five years her elder, stirred unease that settled heavily in his stomach.

He let his arms fall wearily to his sides; the crown perched on his head growing heavier with every breath. "If you don't wed him, Anova might have just three months left," he murmured, his voice threading through the silence with a somber inevitability.

The silence that followed was oppressive, pressing down on them until it seemed even their breaths were loud and intrusive against the tapestry of quiet.

"You're asking me to let thousands suffer, to sacrifice an entire nation," Bran said, each word fraught with the enormity of his decision. "As a King, I can't do that."

Rose felt the sting of truth in his words, but acknowledgment offered little solace. Her heart twisted painfully as sobs surged anew, each heave a reminder of the fate waiting just beyond her reach. The dark fae were known for their cruelty; tales of their fondness for brutality and their utter disregard for dignity haunted her thoughts, overwhelming her senses with dread.

"It's our responsibility," Bran's voice broke in, as soft as a whisper yet loaded with gravity. "As the royal family, we take the brunt of the burden."

She lifted her head, her red-rimmed eyes searching her brother's face, where the shadows of additional responsibilities lingered. Since taking the throne, he had aged before her eyes; worry lines etched themselves deep into his skin, the furrows of his brow speaking of sleepless nights and heavy decisions. The boyish charm she remembered had dimmed, replaced by a haggard visage that told of sleepless nights.

Yet despite the storm raging around them, he was still here, still home.

But she, she would be cast away—shipped off to a realm unknown.

The journey ahead loomed in her mind—a daunting two-day ride through the forbidding Wanola Forest. She shuddered at the thought of one day seeing the imposing city walls fashioned from stone plucked from the depths of the fabled Obsidian Ocean. It was a sight she had envisioned only in storybooks, vivid illustrations leaping off the pages, but realities whispered darkly of the Moon Palace awaiting her beyond those grim walls.

From the shadows of her childhood, she recalled fearful tales—each describing the palace as a den of darkness, rife with intrigue and treachery, where backstabbing and death shadowed the corridors like a constant specter. She had no wish to play a part in such grim narratives.

"Did you at least try to negotiate?" she asked hoarsely, her voice breaking on the question.

Bran let out a heavy breath, his frustration laced with a hint of resignation. "No, I just served you up on a silver platter," he grumbled, bitterness pooling in his voice. "Those were the best terms they offered."

"What else was on the table?" Rose pressed, hope flaring momentarily in the depths of her despair.

Bran rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture laden with weariness. "There was the option of handing over half the land of Anova," he sighed, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. "They've already conquered twenty percent; it's a miracle I could manage to reclaim that at all."

"Why is marrying me better than losing half of Anova?" Rose inquired, the disbelief and desperation mingling in her voice.

Bran winced, having wrestled with the same troubling question. "Maybe it's not merely about marrying you," he hesitated, "but about your heirs."

The blood drained from Rose's face, leaving her cold and hollow.

"Well then," she stammered, desperate for an alternative, "why don't they want our aunt? She's only thirty-seven… plenty of time to bear an heir."

Bran's thoughts flickered to Fauna, their father's sister—a striking fae woman with hair like freshly fallen snow and eyes as clear as the brightest sky. Yet even with her beauty and youth, the dark fae's intentions were unwavering.

"I don't know," Bran admitted, shaking his head slowly, as if the very act might dispel the shadows that loomed large. "They named you specifically."

They stood in silence within the expansive throne room, the ornate decor surrounding them heavy with splendor that seemed almost suffocating. The intricate gold leaf and velvet drapes loomed down from the high ceiling, their grandeur contrasting with the emptiness that echoed between the siblings. Outside, bright flashes of lightning streaked across the sky before a deafening boom of thunder rattled the windows, shaking the very air around them. The storm mirrored the turbulence within their hearts, each clap of thunder resonating with the chaos brewing inside.

In the stillness, a sudden thud at the door broke through their shared silence, sending a sharp spark of awareness through them. Both siblings turned to exchange knowing glances, a silent acknowledgment born of shared memories—of days spent eavesdropping on whispered conversations behind heavy doors, gathering scraps of information like moths drawn to a dangerous flame.

"When will I have to leave?" Rose finally asked, her voice trembling as the weight of her impending fate pressed down on her, succumbing to the reality she had tried to stave off.

Bran leaned back, his gaze dropping to the ornate floor, unable to meet her eyes. "Tomorrow morning," he replied, his voice barely more than a whisper.

The words hit her like a physical blow, and she stumbled, her knees nearly buckling beneath her as a wave of panic washed over her. "T-tomorrow? So soon?" The disbelief in her voice was palpable, a knot of fear tightening in her stomach.

"That's when the emissary leaves," Bran said, the gravity of his tone matching the storm's roar outside. "I can try pushing it to the afternoon, but I don't think it wise. Leaving early is safest."

"I see." She pressed a hand to her chest, fingers splayed wide as if trying to still the frantic fluttering of her heart, each beat echoing the anxiety churning within her.

Bran stood to his feet, striding toward her with a sense of resolve. He enveloped her in his arms, the embrace warm and encompassing, wrapping around her like a protective cocoon. "I don't want you to go…but I can't afford for you to stay," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, the weight of every unspoken word hanging in the air like a thick fog.

Rose breathed in, filling her lungs with the comforting scent of fresh mint and pine that clung to him, a memory of laughter and lighthearted days spent in the gardens now overshadowed by impending separation. Her arms hung limply at her sides, heavy with the reality of their situation, as if the very act of reaching up to return his embrace would shatter her composure entirely.

"I don't want to marry him," she whispered, the confession escaping her lips like a fragile wisp of smoke, quick to dissipate but filled with the weight of her despair.

Bran closed his eyes, the admission striking him deeply. Pain flickered across his features, and the muscles in his jaw tensed. "You have no choice."