The grand receiving room was too vast for one person to wait in.
Princess Lan sat alone on a velvet-cushioned settee, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her new silk hanfu pooling around her like soft waves. The light from the tall stained-glass windows stretched long on the marble floor, shifting with each passing hour.
She had been told to wait.
And so she did—head held high at first, posture perfect, like she was taught to sit on her father's throne when guests came. But after the third hour passed and no one came, her chin slowly dipped, her arms slumped at her sides, and exhaustion crept over her.
Lan fell asleep.
When the doors creaked open, she stirred awake with a small gasp.
A stern man stood over her—balding, square-jawed, holding a sheet of parchment with writing that bled like shadows across its surface. He said nothing, only extended the paper toward her, along with a quill.
She blinked at the document, her heartbeat still fluttering from being startled awake. The letters were strange and foreign—Stromwalde script—all sharp edges and curling tails. She recognized nothing. Not even her name.
"I… I can't read this," she whispered in Chinese.
The man didn't reply. He only gave her a slight, impatient nod and jabbed a finger toward the bottom of the page.
Sign here.
Lan hesitated. Her hand hovered over the quill.
The doors opened again.
Heavy footsteps echoed across the marble floor like hammer strikes, steady and deliberate. And then, he entered.
Prince Alaric von Lichtenfeld.
Lan had heard the rumors—but no one had prepared her for the reality of him.
He stood tall, dressed in a high-collared black coat that cut sharply against his broad frame, silver embroidery catching the light like frost. His hair was dark, swept back and slightly tousled, like he'd just returned from riding. But it was his facethat stilled her breath.
Pale skin. High cheekbones. A scar, faint and thin, ran just beneath his left eye. His lips were drawn tight, and his eyes—icy gray-blue—were filled with a mixture of disdain and something colder: fury.
He was beautiful.
And terrifying.
He looked at the contract, then at her, and spoke—not to her, but to the man beside her.
"She doesn't need to sign that."
The words were sharp, delivered in perfect Stromwaldean.
Lan didn't understand.
Then his gaze snapped to her.
"You don't have to marry me," Alaric said coldly, this time in slightly accented Chinese. "I didn't ask for this. I don't want this. And I don't marry children."
Lan stared at him, stunned. She was still seated, still blinking away sleep, and here he was—this prince with a face like a carved statue—rejecting her before anything had even begun.
She looked back at the paper.
This was the only thing that defined her future now. A contract.
Her fingers closed around the quill.
Alaric stepped forward, his voice like a warning blade. "You don't understand what you're agreeing to. This marriage is nothing but political embroidery. It's fake. A chain dressed in gold. You'll regret it."
She dipped the quill into ink.
"Don't be foolish," he said.
Lan paused.
Then she looked at him directly—for the first time. Her voice was soft, unsure, but honest.
"…You are very beautiful."
Alaric's expression cracked. Just slightly. The anger froze, replaced with surprise.
She signed her name.
An elegant series of strokes in Chinese: 兰.
The man took the parchment and bowed, disappearing with a rustle of paper and boots.
Alaric stared at her like she had thrown a stone at him.
"Why?" he asked flatly.
Lan set the quill down, her hand trembling only a little. "Because it's only for three years."
That caught him off guard.
She added, "When I turn eighteen, the contract ends. I'll leave. You'll be free."
"And you think that's a good reason to agree?" he snapped.
"Yes," she said quietly. "Because it gives me shelter. It gives me time. And because…"
She hesitated.
"…because I knew I would say yes the moment I saw your face."
It was humiliating to admit. But strangely freeing.
Alaric's gaze sharpened—but he said nothing. His hands curled into fists at his sides. Whether it was out of anger or disbelief, she couldn't tell.
She stood, bowing slightly. "I won't be in your way. I understand my place here."
She turned, walking back toward the servants' corridor where Mina had said she'd wait. But deep inside, something small—something secret—flickered warm.
Three years.Just three years of pretending.
She could endure that. She had to.Because for the first time since she was taken, Princess Lan had made a choice.