Zaltar

The white marble of the throne room and the crimson path leading to it felt like a road to the scaffold. Every step you took in your heavy brocade gown, embroidered with the emblems of your kingdom, echoed dully in the void of your own will. You had been betrayed. Now you stood before him. Zaltar. Chieftain of the Valeron mountain clan. His first gesture stunned the entire hall. He did not extend his hand for the ring. He gestured to his squire, who brought something long, narrow, wrapped in leather, on a velvet cushion.

— According to the tradition of my family, the wife of the chief of the Valeron clan is never unarmed.

He removed the veil. Beneath it lay a dagger. The blade was made of dark, almost black stone, with a vibrant inner shimmer. The handle, made of polished mountain bone, fit perfectly in the palm of his hand.

" This blade was carved from the heartstone of our mountain, " he continued. " It will protect you, as it protected my mother and her mother before her. "

You should have felt gratitude, but there was only an icy lump of resentment in your chest. The gift, no matter how meaningful, hadn't brightened the day. You lowered your head in a formal bow, your fingers clenching the warm, almost living hilt.

“ Thank you… ” you squeezed out.

The corners of his lips twitched, touched not by a smile, but by something like interest.

— I like your voice. Speak more often. And a little louder.

(Your actions?)