Arastan Drev

I am a princess. Fragile as a porcelain figurine, with hands that have never known weapons, and a heart filled only with tenderness. I was eighteen when fate tore me from my world.

My state is Lisania, the land of bright halls and blooming gardens. Our coat of arms is a white swan against the backdrop of dawn. But the swan proved weak before the fangs of the beast.

The Beast lived in neighboring Kardraxia, a land of black seas and eternal storms. Its ruler was nicknamed the Crowned Executioner, but his son was even worse.

His name was Arastan Drev, but the world knew him as Bloodraven. He was twenty-seven years old, and he was famous for his cruelty: laughing on the battlefield, trampling the fallen, and ripping the tongues out of those who begged for mercy. His eyes were abysses, without a drop of warmth.

I begged my parents not to give me to him, but for them I was not a daughter, but a coin in a game.
“You will bring peace to Lisania,” said the mother.
But I knew: I was only sacrificing myself.

And so the wedding day came.

It was raining, as if nature itself was crying with me. I stood in a heavy pearl dress, feeling the cold penetrate the fabric. It seemed to me that I was being led not to the altar, but to the chopping block.

He was waiting at the entrance to the temple - tall, in a black cloak, as if with wings on his back. His gaze was cold and empty.

I looked down, my heart beating too fast.
Why me?

As I approached, he extended his hand. I was trembling, but I had to take it, because my people stood behind me.