The scent of iron and incense lingered in the air of the Hall of Conquerors, a grand chamber forged from Stromwalde's blackstone and silence. Shafts of cold light filtered through stained-glass windows, painting distorted reds and golds across the floor—like blood spilled in elegance.
They stood in a line—twelve prisoners of war, torn from Qinglong, bound in silence. Among them, she stood.
Lan.
Fifteen winters old, cloaked in torn silk that still bore the faint embroidery of royalty, she was not the tallest nor the fiercest among the captives, but something about her presence made the light catch differently on her. She stood straight, head high, as if her posture alone could preserve the dignity of a fallen kingdom.
Her skin was pale like moonlight over porcelain, delicate yet defiant. Long, ink-black hair fell over her shoulders in uneven strands—some cut hastily in the chaos of capture—framing a face not yet grown into its full power, but already shaped by sorrow and silence. Her dark almond eyes held no tears, only a distant fury, like a candle refusing to die in the wind.
At the end of the hall stood Lady Elara von Lichtenfeld, cloaked not in armor, but in velvet and burden. Young—too young, the court often whispered behind closed doors—Elara bore her station as head of House Lichtenfeld with a poise that silenced even the cruelest mouths. But beneath her composed grace, today, her heart was weary.
Her gaze shifted between the prisoners as she spoke with the commander at her side. His name was Commander Reinhardt Vogel, a man of war-hardened age, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, bearing scars that never quite faded beneath his uniform.
"We can send the older ones to labor camps. The younger boys—if they're fit—can be trained for border watch. As for the girls..." He hesitated, voice flat. "They'll be sorted by the court."
Elara's lips pressed into a tight line. She had seen what "sorted" meant.
Then her eyes caught movement—no, stillness—at the far end of the line. The girl.
"Who is she?" Elara asked softly.
Reinhardt barely looked. "That one? The youngest among them. A Qinglong noble. The men say she's the daughter of the late Emperor. Princess Lan."
Elara's brows lifted slightly. "A princess?"
He nodded. "They captured her after the fall of the capital. Didn't scream. Didn't speak. Just watched the fires."
Elara's gaze lingered on Lan, studying her like one might study their own reflection through rippling water. There was something in the girl's stillness. Something terrifyingly familiar.
She crossed the hall after the sorting began, moving through pillars and muttered orders, skirts whispering against polished stone. She passed by chambers where generals and nobles murmured over maps and spoils, and heard it—the way they spoke of the girl.
"She's beautiful, isn't she? Perhaps too beautiful to waste in exile..."
"Elara won't keep her. One of the northern dukes has already sent a request."
"Even old Baron Steiger? Filthy man. He said he'd 'tame that dragon girl.'"
The words curled in her stomach like acid. Elara kept walking, her hands clenched in her sleeves.
The council chamber was smaller than the great hall, but heavier with tension. A long table stretched beneath a mural of Stromwalde's founding conquest. Around it sat warlords, advisors, and house representatives. None questioned Elara's right to call the meeting—but all had come ready to challenge what they thought she might say.
She did not wait long.
"I've made my decision," she said, folding her hands before her. "Princess Lan of Qinglong will be taken into House Lichtenfeld."
Whispers surged like storm wind.
"As what?" one general asked, frowning. "A ward?"
Elara's eyes were steady. "As my daughter-in-law."
Silence, then a cascade of voices.
"She's a liability—"
"She could grow to hate us—"
"She's still of enemy blood—"
"Elara, you need not soil your house with her. If you don't want her disgraced, I will take her under my protection—"
"No," Elara said, calm as ice over fire. "She stays with me."
One man leaned forward, a merchant-lord with a fox's smile. "Surely, you don't intend her for Alaric?"
The name stirred discomfort across the table.
"Your stepson has no use for delicate creatures," someone muttered.
"Especially ones from Qinglong," added another, bitterly.
Elara said nothing at first. Her silence was its own kind of command.
Finally, she spoke. "He doesn't need to want her. Nor does she need his approval. This is not about desire. It is about balance."
"But she could take revenge," one warned. "A girl like that... she'll never forget what we did to her people."
Elara met his eyes. "Perhaps. But I know what it is to be a girl no one wants. And I know what becomes of them if no one stands between them and the wolves."
No one dared argue again.
The decision was made.
And far from the council chamber, Lan sat alone in the stone quarters they had thrown her into, her arms around her knees, her breath fogging in the cold. She did not know what was being decided in the next room, what path was being carved for her against her will.
But in her silence, she had already decided one thing.
She would survive.
Even if it meant becoming something Stromwalde would one day regret sparing.