The Tyrant’s Warrior Bride

The day arrived too soon.

Seraphina stood before the mirror, her reflection reminding her of her cruel fate. The dress was breathtaking—woven from silver silk, embroidered with the sigil of Draeven. His kingdom. His mark.

She hated it.

Elena stood behind her, adjusting the veil with careful hands. "You look beautiful, my lady."

Seraphina's fingers curled into fists. "I look like a prisoner."

Elena hesitated, her fingers trembling against the fabric. "You don't have to go through with this. We could run—"

Seraphina exhaled sharply. "No. There's nowhere to run."

She had tried.

Last night, under the cover of darkness, she had scoured every passage, tested every hidden door. But Kael had anticipated everything. Every route was sealed. Every soldier watched her with cold efficiency.

Her cage was impenetrable.

The knock at the door made Elena flinch.

"It's time."

Seraphina turned to the mirror one last time.

This was not a wedding.

This was a war.

The grand cathedral was a monument to power, its towering stone walls lined with nobles from both kingdoms. Hundreds of eyes followed her as she entered, watching her every move.

She felt their judgment. Some pitied her. Others rejoiced in her defeat.

At the altar, Kael stood in pristine ceremonial armor, draped in navy and silver, the sigil of Draeven gleaming at his chest. His posture was unshaken, his face unreadable.

A king in the making. A conqueror untouched by regret.

The moment their eyes met, a silent challenge passed between them.

I will never be yours.

We shall see.

Seraphina lifted her chin and walked forward, her steps slow, deliberate.

Her father sat at the front, his hands gripping the arms of his throne like a man condemned. He had failed her. Sold her like a pawn in his game.

The priest began the vows. Words of duty. Words of unity. Lies.

Seraphina barely heard them. The walls of the cathedral seemed to close in, the air growing tighter.

The priest's voice rang through the hall.

"Do you, Prince Kael of Draeven, take Princess Seraphina of Varelis as your wife?"

Kael's reply was instant. "I do."

His voice was calm, certain—as if this was just another step toward his inevitable victory.

The priest turned to her. "And do you, Princess Seraphina of Varelis, take Prince Kael of Draeven—"

"I do not."

A stunned silence fell over the cathedral.

Gasps rippled through the crowd, whispers spreading like wildfire.

Her father stiffened. The nobles exchanged uneasy glances. Even the Draeven knights, trained in discipline, shifted uncomfortably.

Kael?

He didn't even blink.

His jaw tensed, but there was no fury in his expression—just a quiet, calculating patience. As if he had expected this.

The priest hesitated, looking toward the king for guidance. Her father's face was pale, his knuckles white against the throne.

Seraphina could hear her own heartbeat. Loud. Wild.

There was no way out of this.

The treaty depended on it.

The survival of her people depended on it.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of her dress. Damn them all. Damn this war. Damn him.

The priest's voice wavered. "Princess, you must—"

She swallowed, forcing down the bile rising in her throat.

"I do."

The words tasted like poison.

Kael's fingers closed around hers as the rings were exchanged. His touch was firm, unyielding, possessive—not rough, but not gentle either.

The final seal was placed.

A murmur spread through the room as the ceremony neared its end. The moment stretched, thick with unspoken words.

Then, the priest delivered the final blow.

"You may now kiss the bride."

Seraphina stiffened.

The hall fell into absolute silence.

Kael turned to her, his expression unclear. He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming.

Her pulse pounded.

He wouldn't dare.

Would he?

Kael leaned in, his lips barely a breath away from hers. He gave her the slightest chance to move, to recoil.

She didn't.

Not because she wanted this. But because she refused to let him see her falter.

His lips brushed against hers, a fleeting touch. A claim.

It was over before she could process it.

The hall erupted into applause.

Seraphina stood frozen, her mind blank. She was a wife now. His wife.

Her fingers burned where he had touched her.

Kael took her hand once more and whispered, so only she could hear—"You lost this battle, Princess. But don't worry… I'll make sure you don't regret it."

Her stomach twisted. She would never regret hating him.

The reception was a blur of politics and forced smiles. The nobles drank, feasted, and spoke of the "new era of peace."

Seraphina stood beside Kael, a queen in all but name, bound to a man she despised.

He played the part of the perfect prince—courteous, charming, utterly untouchable.

But when no one was looking, his gaze would flicker toward her. Measuring. Waiting.

He was up to something but she was ready

And when the time came, she would make him regret underestimating her.