THE WAR BRIDEs VOW
The political marriage is announced. Daisy privately swears vengeance. Norman declares publicly that she will be queen—not hostage—causing unrest among nobles.
A dagger forged in Eastern steel is found beneath Daisy's pillow.
Part I
The announcement shattered the court before the words had even finished leaving the king's mouth. It was not delivered in private council nor whispered behind guarded doors; Norman Schultz chose the Great Hall at midday, beneath the vaulted ceiling of black stone carved with the victories of his lineage, before nobles, commanders, merchants, emissaries, and servants alike, ensuring that when the declaration fell, it fell like a blade striking marble—loud, irreversible, impossible to ignore. Daisy stood at his right, no longer shackled but no less trapped, dressed in dark silk provided by the royal seamstresses, the fabric heavy with gold-threaded embroidery that felt less like adornment and more like branding. Her bruises were concealed beneath long sleeves; her pride was not. The murmuring had begun the moment she entered at his side, rippling outward like tremors before an earthquake, but when Norman rose from the throne and lifted a single hand for silence, the hall stilled in obedient waves. "Hear me," he said, voice calm yet resonant enough to claim every corner of the chamber. "The war with the Eastern territories ends today—not in annihilation, but in union. Daisy Albert, last heir of Riverfall, will become my wife within the fortnight. She will not serve as prisoner. She will not be paraded as spoil. She will be crowned Queen of Shadowstorm." The silence that followed was not relief. It was shock calcifying into resistance.
Daisy felt it instantly—the shift in air pressure, the collective tightening of breath, the flicker of outrage barely masked behind trained expressions. She kept her spine straight, chin level, though her pulse thundered against her ribs like a caged animal desperate for release. Queen. He had said it without hesitation. Not consort. Not hostage bride. Queen. The word was deliberate, calculated, incendiary. And she understood immediately that this was not mercy—it was strategy. A hostage could be dismissed. A queen altered succession. Altered inheritance. Altered power. Norman had not merely ended a war; he had redrawn the map of the future with one sentence. The first protest came from the lower tiers—murmured, cautious. The second was louder. By the third, voices rose openly. "Majesty," called Lord Harrick, an aging noble whose wealth was built on southern trade routes secured by conquest, "with respect, elevating a defeated bloodline to equal standing—" Norman did not raise his voice to silence him. He did not need to. "With respect," he replied evenly, "you mistake defeat for extinction." His gaze swept the hall, daring challenge. "Riverfall's people now fall under my protection. Their loyalty will not be earned through humiliation. It will be secured through alliance." The word loyalty hung heavy. This was not romantic idealism. It was governance.
Beside him, Daisy felt heat crawl beneath her skin—not from attraction, not from gratitude, but from the bitter complexity of the move. He was using her. Using her name. Using her legitimacy to pacify rebellion before it ignited. If she refused, she doomed her people to endless suppression. If she accepted, she legitimized the man who destroyed her home. It was a noose woven of silk and steel. "And what of succession?" another noble demanded, bolder now. "If heirs are born of this union, will Eastern blood claim the throne?" The hall leaned forward collectively. That was the true fear. Not sentiment. Not outrage. Blood. Norman did not hesitate. "Any heir born of this marriage will be Shadowstorm's heir," he said, voice cold iron. "And therefore mine." The unspoken message was clear: challenge this decision and challenge me. A dangerous line to cross. Yet Daisy sensed the fracture lines forming beneath polished stone. Power had shifted. Not weakened—shifted. And shifts bred instability.
The ceremony dissolved not in applause but in brittle compliance. Nobles bowed, but not all eyes lowered. Some watched her with curiosity. Some with open hostility. One or two with something calculating. Daisy memorized those faces. She had grown up in court; she understood that wars were not only fought with blades. As the assembly dispersed, Norman did not touch her, did not guide her physically, yet his presence remained an unspoken directive as they descended from the dais together. She felt the weight of every gaze tracking their movement. He had declared her queen. Now he would see if she could endure it. The moment they crossed the threshold into the adjoining corridor, she spoke without preamble. "You could have made me consort." He did not slow his stride. "Yes." "You could have kept me in the eastern tower indefinitely." "Yes." "You could have executed me and declared Riverfall absorbed." A pause. "Yes." She stopped walking. "Then why didn't you?" He turned then, and the torchlight cut sharp lines across his face, revealing no softness, no easy reassurance. "Because I will not rule a fractured continent," he said. "And because dead queens cannot choose loyalty." The statement struck deeper than she expected. "You assume I will choose yours." "I assume," he corrected, "that you are intelligent enough to recognize mutual survival." Mutual. Not one-sided. The distinction mattered.
That night, alone in chambers prepared not as prison but as royal suite, Daisy stood before the mirror and stared at the woman reflected there. Dark silk replaced battle leathers. Gold thread replaced dried blood. Yet beneath the transformation, her eyes remained the same—green as Riverfall's forests, sharp with memory of smoke and screams. Queen. The word echoed again, but this time she examined it from another angle. Queens wielded influence. Queens shaped policy. Queens could protect what remained of their people. Or dismantle empires from within. Slowly, deliberately, she unpinned the gold clasp fastening her hair and let it fall loose down her back. "I will not be your pawn," she whispered to the empty room. "I will be your reckoning." The vow settled into her bones like steel reinforcing fragile glass. If Norman thought to bind her with title and privilege, he underestimated her capacity for patience. She would learn this court. Learn its fractures. Learn its secrets. And when the moment came, she would decide whether to destroy him—or reshape him.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. Not the heavy knock of guards. Lighter. Calculated. "Enter," she called coolly. The door opened to reveal Elara Raventhorn, poised and immaculate in deep crimson silk, her dark hair coiled elegantly at the nape of her neck. Her smile was flawless. Too flawless. "Your Grace," Elara said with a graceful incline of her head, the title deliberate. "I thought it proper to welcome you." Daisy did not miss the subtle assessment in the other woman's eyes—the weighing of threat. "Former betrothed, I presume," Daisy replied evenly. Elara's smile sharpened infinitesimally. "Formerly considered, yes." Ah. Not formally promised. But close enough to sting. "You must understand," Elara continued smoothly, "that the court is… adjusting. Your presence is unexpected." "As was your king's decision," Daisy replied. "He does not consult the court on matters of strategy." "Marriage is not strategy," Elara said lightly. Daisy held her gaze. "In Shadowstorm, it appears to be." A pause. The first crack in Elara's composure flickered and vanished. "I hope," Elara said softly, "that you intend to honor your new kingdom." The warning lay beneath the courtesy. Daisy stepped closer, close enough that only Elara could hear her next words. "I intend," she said quietly, "to honor the truth." Elara's eyes darkened. "Be careful what truths you seek." Then she turned and left.
The door closed with a gentle click. Daisy exhaled slowly. Lines were being drawn already—not openly, but unmistakably. She crossed to the bed at last, exhaustion creeping into her limbs now that adrenaline ebbed. The chamber was silent except for the distant murmur of guards shifting posts beyond the door. She allowed herself a single moment of vulnerability as she lowered onto the mattress, staring up at the canopy carved with wolves mid-howl. This was not Riverfall. The scent of pine was faint, replaced by cold stone and unfamiliar incense. She pressed her hand against her chest where grief still pulsed raw and unresolved. "I will not forget," she murmured. Not the fire. Not the bodies. Not the crown that had fallen from her father's head as he ordered her to flee. The vow sharpened anew. Vengeance did not require rage. It required time.
When she finally lay back and closed her eyes, sleep did not come easily. Every creak of timber, every distant footstep registered as potential threat. Hours passed before exhaustion dragged her under—and even then, her dreams were not gentle. She saw Riverfall's gates collapsing again, heard the clash of steel, smelled smoke thick enough to choke. In the dream, she ran toward the throne room only to find it empty—no father, no guards, only a single crown lying on bloodstained marble. She reached for it—only for the crown to turn to ash in her hands. She woke with a sharp inhale, heart pounding violently against her ribs, the darkness of the chamber pressing close. For a moment she could not separate dream from memory. Then the scent hit her.
Iron, Fresh, Her body went utterly still. The scent did not belong to old wounds. It was sharper. Closer. Slowly, carefully, she turned her head toward the pillow beside her.
Moonlight streamed faintly through the window, casting pale illumination across white linen, And there—half-buried beneath the edge of the pillow, its hilt unmistakable even in shadow—lay a dagger forged in Eastern steel, the blade etched with the crest of Riverfall: a rearing wolf beneath twin stars. Her breath caught, No guard had entered. No door had opened. The blade had not been there when she lay down.
Someone had placed it while she slept. Not just any blade. A symbol. A message, Her pulse accelerated, not with fear—but realization. This was no random threat.
It was an invitation, Or a warning.
She reached for the dagger slowly, fingers closing around the familiar grip, and as she drew it free, a folded strip of parchment slipped from beneath the pillow and drifted soundlessly to the floor.
She stared at it, Then bent to retrieve it. The script was concise. Precise. Written in a hand she did not immediately recognize.
The queen must choose.
Before he chooses for her.
No signature.
No seal. Only the faint imprint of wax once pressed and removed. Daisy straightened slowly, dagger still in hand. The war had not ended. It had merely changed form. And somewhere within the palace walls, someone believed she was already playing their game.
Part II
Daisy did not call for the guards. She did not scream, did not move toward the door, did not betray the violent acceleration of her pulse as it thundered beneath her ribs. Instead, she stood in the center of the chamber with the Eastern-forged dagger balanced in her palm and let silence settle around her like armor. Panic would serve whoever had placed the blade beneath her pillow. Fear would confirm vulnerability. And vulnerability, in this palace, would be devoured. She crossed slowly toward the hearth and angled the dagger toward the firelight, studying the steel with a precision born of familiarity. It was Riverfall craftsmanship—folded metal layered thrice, light enough for speed yet heavy enough to pierce armor at close range. The hilt bore the wolf-and-stars crest etched with minute asymmetry on the lower star's edge, a subtle flaw she recognized immediately. This blade had been forged in the eastern armory the year before the war. She had overseen the inspection herself. Which meant whoever placed it here either survived the fall of Riverfall—or had access to its ruins. Her jaw tightened.
The parchment lay unfolded on the small table near the bed, the message deceptively simple. The queen must choose. Before he chooses for her. The phrasing was deliberate. Not bride. Not princess. Queen. Whoever wrote it acknowledged Norman's declaration publicly and understood its implications. This was not the work of a random servant or opportunistic assassin. This was strategy. Psychological positioning. Someone wanted her unsettled before the marriage ceremony. Someone wanted her questioning the man she was bound to. Or worse—someone wanted her to act rashly.
A soft scrape sounded outside the door as guards shifted positions. She glanced toward it, mind racing through possibilities. If she reported the dagger, Norman would investigate. He would tighten security. He would search for traitors. But that would also expose that her chamber had been breached despite protection. It would expose weakness in his fortress. And more dangerously—it would reveal that Eastern steel had slipped past his watch. The court already simmered with unrest over her elevation. A breach tied to her heritage would ignite suspicion like oil on flame. She could become the perfect scapegoat before she had even been crowned. And yet hiding it carried its own risk.
She moved toward the door at last and opened it a fraction. The guard captain—the silver-haired woman from earlier—stood outside, posture rigid. Her eyes flicked briefly to Daisy's face. "Your Grace?"
Daisy studied her carefully. Loyalty radiated from the woman, but loyalty to whom? To Norman? To Shadowstorm? To stability? "Send for the king," Daisy said calmly. "Now."
The captain did not question her. She signaled to another guard, who disappeared down the corridor at once. Daisy closed the door and returned to the hearth, positioning herself where the dagger would be visible when Norman entered. If this was a test, she would not fail it by concealing truth. Trust, however fragile, could not be built on hidden blades.
The knock came swiftly. Norman entered alone again. His gaze swept the room once—instinctive, assessing—before landing on the dagger in her hand. The shift in his posture was nearly imperceptible, but she saw it. Stillness sharpened.
"Explain," he said quietly. She held his gaze and extended the blade toward him. "It was beneath my pillow." He did not reach for it immediately. Instead, he stepped closer and examined the crest without touching it. Recognition flickered. "Eastern make."
"Yes." "Hidden message?". She inclined her head toward the table. He crossed the room in three strides and read the parchment once, then again more slowly. No visible reaction. Only the faint tightening along his jaw.
"Who has access to this chamber?" she asked.
"Three guards at all times. Rotating every four hours. The captain oversees personally." His voice remained controlled, but she sensed the undercurrent—anger not at her, but at breach. "And you trust them?".."I trust their fear of me," he replied bluntly.
"That is not the same thing."His eyes lifted to hers. "No," he agreed. The admission hung between them. "This was not meant to kill me," she said steadily. "If it were, the blade would have been in my throat." "It was meant to provoke you," Norman countered. "Or provoke me."
"Or both." Silence again.
He finally took the dagger from her hand. Their fingers brushed briefly—an accidental contact that sent a sharp, inexplicable jolt through her nerves. Not attraction. Not comfort. Recognition. As though some invisible thread acknowledged proximity.
Norman turned the blade toward the firelight. "This was forged recently," he said. "Not salvaged. The edge is clean. Oiled."
Her stomach tightened. "Then Riverfall was not completely destroyed." "Or someone retrieved weapons before the fall." "Why place it here?" she pressed. "Why risk discovery?". "To remind you," he said quietly, "that you still have a choice." Her chest constricted. "You think this is from my people." "I think," Norman corrected, "that someone wants you to think it is." Before she could respond, another knock sounded—firmer, urgent.
"Enter," Norman called. Varik stepped inside, expression unreadable as always. His gaze flicked once to the dagger in Norman's hand and then to Daisy's face. "It has begun," he said simply. "What has?" Daisy demanded.
Varik held Norman's gaze. "Three minor nobles in the southern district were found murdered within the last hour. Each killed with Eastern steel." The room seemed to contract. "Public?" Norman asked sharply. "Yes." "Witnesses?". "Many."
Daisy felt the ground tilt beneath her. "Describe the wounds," she said, voice steady by sheer force.
"Precise," Varik replied. "Single strikes. Clean cuts. Professional." "Not reckless," Norman murmured.."No," Varik agreed. "Intentional."
Daisy's thoughts aligned with brutal clarity. Eastern steel in her chamber. Eastern steel in public murders. The message under her pillow. The timing aligned too perfectly to be coincidence.
"They are framing me," she said.
"They are framing your bloodline," Norman corrected grimly. "And by extension, me."
"If the court believes Eastern loyalists are killing nobles—" "They will demand your removal," Varik finished. "And if I refuse?" she asked Norman."They will call it weakness." "And if you imprison me again?". "They will call it justice." The trap closed in from every direction.
Daisy straightened, anger cutting through shock. "Then we give them something else to look at." Norman's eyes narrowed slightly. "Meaning?" "We expose the manipulation before they can solidify it," she said. "Publicly." Varik tilted his head. "You propose admitting the blade was placed in your chamber?". "Yes."
Norman's expression hardened. "That reveals breach in my palace." "It reveals someone is attempting to destabilize you," she countered. "If you hide it and more bodies appear, suspicion grows in silence. If you confront it immediately, you control the narrative." Silence fell. Varik watched her with newfound interest.
"You would stand before the court and admit Eastern steel was found under your pillow?" Norman asked quietly. "Yes." "You understand they may call for your execution." "Yes." "And you would risk that?"
Daisy met his gaze unflinchingly. "I will not be maneuvered like a frightened pawn. If someone wishes to use my heritage to fracture this kingdom, I will not help them by hiding." A long pause.
Then, unexpectedly, a faint shift touched Norman's expression—not amusement, not softness—respect."Prepare the council chamber," he said to Varik. "Immediate assembly."
Varik inclined his head and vanished. When they were alone again, Norman stepped closer, lowering his voice. "If this fails, I will not allow them to take you." She held his gaze. "You may not have that choice." His jaw tightened. "And if it succeeds?" she asked.
"Then," he said slowly, "we find who is bold enough to strike at both of us simultaneously."
Her pulse skipped, Both of us. The phrasing was no longer king and captive. It was alignment. Outside, bells began ringing—the signal for emergency council. The game had accelerated.
As Norman moved toward the door, Daisy's mind raced ahead. Someone had access to Eastern weapons. Someone had orchestrated synchronized killings. Someone had predicted that she would choose transparency rather than concealment.
Which meant—They understood her. That realization unsettled her more than the dagger itself. As they stepped into the corridor together, the guards falling into formation behind them, Daisy felt the weight of unseen eyes upon her. Not the obvious scrutiny of nobles or soldiers—but something more deliberate. Observant. Patient.
The council chamber doors loomed ahead. And somewhere within those walls, she sensed i
t with chilling certainty—The architect of this new war was already waiting.