Chapter Seven: That Damned Smirk

Three hours later, Adrienne stood in her chambers while two maids fussed over her hair, weaving the blonde curls into an intricate braid that wrapped around her head like a crown. The blouse fit perfectly—high-necked and modest, but tailored to show her figure. The trousers were crisp and elegant, paired with polished black boots that could double as weapons if needed.

She looked like a princess.

She looked like a warrior.

She looked like herself.

A knock at the door interrupted her inspection. "Enter."

Lancelot and Leon filed in, both trying unsuccessfully to hide their grins.

"Well, well." Lancelot circled her slowly, his dark eyes gleaming with mischief. "Look at you. Almost respectable."

"Almost?" Adrienne raised an eyebrow.

"The trousers are a nice touch." Leon's expression was more diplomatic, but his gray eyes danced with amusement. "Your father is going to have an apoplexy."

"That's a bonus."

"So." Lancelot dropped onto her bed, making himself comfortable despite the maids' disapproving looks. "Tonight's the night. You finally meet Prince Onions."

Adrienne shot him a warning glare. "Don't call him that."

"Why not? You do."

"That's different."

"How?"

"Because when I do it, it's insulting. When you do it, it's... also insulting, but less satisfying."

Leon moved to the window, looking out over the palace grounds. "The Camelot entourage should arrive within the hour. Their scouts passed through the gates twenty minutes ago."

"Wonderful." Adrienne checked her reflection one last time. "Can't wait to meet the arrogant bastard who thinks Silvara needs saving."

"You know," Lancelot said carefully, "he might not be what you expect."

"Oh, I know exactly what to expect. Cocky. Self-important. Probably thinks his sword is the biggest in five kingdoms."

Leon coughed, and Lancelot burst out laughing.

"What?" Adrienne looked between them. "I'm talking about actual swords, you perverts."

"Sure you are."

A sharp knock interrupted them—three raps, official and commanding. Her father's knock.

"Come in."

King Aldric entered, and Adrienne felt her stomach drop at the sight of him. He'd dressed in his finest—deep blue velvet with the silver wolf of Silvara embroidered across his chest. His hair and beard were freshly trimmed, the gray seeming more pronounced in the afternoon light. But it was his eyes that caught her—tired and pleading. Leon and Lancelot bowed and left, Adrienne dismissed the maids with her hands.

"Adrienne." His voice was soft. "You look beautiful."

"I look like myself."

"Yes." A sad smile touched his lips. "You do. Your mother would be proud."

The mention of her mother stole the sharp retort from Adrienne's tongue. She swallowed hard. "Father—"

"I'm not asking you to like him." Aldric crossed to her, taking her hands in his weathered ones. "I'm not even asking you to want this. I'm just asking you to try. For one evening. Can you do that for me?"

Adrienne looked at her father and saw the tremor in his hands he couldn't quite hide. The new lines around his eyes. The way he seemed smaller somehow, as if the weight of the crown was finally crushing him.

"I'll try," she said quietly. "But if he's insufferable—"

"Then you'll smile and nod and save the murder for after dessert." Aldric squeezed her hands. "That's all I ask."

༆

The throne room of Silvara was smaller than Camelot's—more intimate, less imposing—but no less magnificent. Afternoon light streamed through tall windows, setting the silver wolf banners ablaze. Adrienne stood beside her father's throne, trying not to fidget, while courtiers and servants lined the walls in their finest clothes.

"They're here," a guard announced. "The royal family of Camelot."

Adrienne's heart kicked against her ribs. This was it. Time to meet the pompous prince who thought he was gods' gift to warfare.

The massive doors swung open.

First came the guards—twenty of Camelot's finest, armor polished to a mirror shine, moving with military precision. Then King Matthias, tall and stern, his presence filling the room like a physical force. Queen Helena followed, elegant and serene in silk, her blonde hair shot through with silver.

And then Princess Giselle, who looked around the throne room with a bright smile.

Finally, Prince Orion.

Adrienne's breath caught.

He wore formal attire—black leather and deep crimson, the golden lion of Camelot emblazoned across his chest. His dark hair was pushed back from his face, and even from across the room, she could see the sharp line of his jaw, the broad shoulders that had dispatched ten men without dismounting.

He looked... regal. Dangerous. Powerful.

And then he looked directly at her, and his mouth curved into the most infuriating smirk she'd ever seen.

Wait.

What!

That face. She knew that face.

That was the arrogant soldier from the battlefield. The one who'd interfered. The one she'd told to get out of her face.

Oh no.

It can't be. It's probably the prince's personal guard or whatever.

The Camelot family approached the throne, stopping at the appropriate distance. King Matthias bowed slightly, between equals. "King Aldric. Thank you for your hospitality."

"King Matthias. Queen Helena. Princess Giselle." Her father's voice was warm, diplomatic. "Welcome to Silvara. May I present my daughter, Princess Adrienne."

Adrienne's mind was screaming. She forced her legs to move forward and execute a curtsy that was technically correct but lacked any real warmth.

Her eyes locked on the soldier—no, the “prince”—and the smirk on his face widened.

"It's an honor to finally meet you, Princess Adrienne," Queen Helena said, her voice kind. "We've heard so much about you."

"Have you." Adrienne's voice came out flat. She couldn't stop staring at the so-called prince. "That's... wonderful."

"Allow me to introduce my son," King Matthias said. "Crown Prince Orion of Camelot. Your betrothed."

The prince stepped forward, and that damned smirk never wavered. "Princess Adrienne. What a pleasure."