THE CHOSEN PAWN

And just like Queen Abigail had said, the day had come.

He was to meet the girl his mother had chosen for him — the one who, in her carefully plotted vision, would stand beside him as queen.

The week had passed with unnerving swiftness. Court petitions, trade disputes, and the quiet rumblings of unrest beyond the kingdom’s borders had kept him tethered to duty. He had moved through the days like a shadow among shadows, his mind never straying to the girl his mother had so meticulously prepared. In truth, he had surprised himself. The girl he had saved — the one whose defiance had burned brighter than the firelight that night — had not crossed his mind once. Or so he told himself.

And yet, as the morning unfolded, he found himself in the royal gardens, seated on a marble bench carved centuries ago. The air was cool, damp from an earlier rain, and the heavy scent of wet earth clung to the roses in bloom. He tilted his head back, eyes scanning the shifting sky — the clouds gathering like silent conspirators.

He didn’t know why he was here. His mother had told him to meet the girl here, in the heart of her prized gardens, as though the location itself would soften him. As though the scent of roses and the gentle splash of the stone fountain would dull the edge of his resolve.

He was here, but not because of her. He owed his mother nothing.

Abigail’s schemes had grown more transparent over the years, and though she played the role of the gracious queen to perfection, Azriel had learned to read the currents beneath her words. She was not simply matchmaking for the sake of his future. No, she was fortifying her influence, securing an alliance that would bind him in more ways than one.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gloved hands clasped loosely together. The damp air cooled his skin, but it did nothing to still the simmer in his chest.

He had considered refusing outright, sending word that he would not attend this charade. But he had come instead, for one reason only — to look his mother’s chosen pawn in the eye and make it clear that no one controlled him.

A distant rustle of silk pulled his attention to the garden’s stone archway. From the shadowed walkway beyond, a figure emerged — tall, poised, and framed by the pale blossoms that trailed along the trellis. The girl moved with the kind of grace that was rehearsed, not born; each step measured, every tilt of her chin purposeful.

Her gown was a masterpiece of ivory and gold, the fabric catching what little sunlight pierced the clouds. A small, polite smile curved her lips as she approached, though her eyes — a clear, assessing shade of green — scanned him as though she, too, had come to take his measure.

“Your Highness,” she said, her voice as smooth as still water. She curtsied deeply, the movement flowing into her rise with flawless precision.

Azriel did not rise from the bench. “Lady Charlotte,’he replied, his tone a deliberate blend of civility and distance. “My mother speaks highly of you.”

Her smile did not falter, but he caught the faintest spark of amusement in her gaze. “And yet, you do not.”

It was not a question.

Azriel leaned back against the bench, stretching one arm along the cool marble. “I have not yet decided what I think of you.”

“Then I suppose,” she said, glancing briefly at the fountain, “that is what today is for.”

The faint murmur of water filled the space between their words. Somewhere beyond the hedges, a bird trilled once, then fell silent.

He studied her openly, not caring if it unsettled her. Most people — especially those groomed for court — shifted under his gaze, revealing cracks in their composure. But Charlotte did not waver.

“Tell me,” he said, “what did my mother promise you?”

For the first time, her smile faded, replaced by something cooler, sharper. “She promised me the crown,” she said plainly. “And she promised you to me.”

The directness was almost refreshing. Almost.

“And do you want me, Lady Charlotte?”he asked.

A pause. Then, “I want what you represent. The man himself… I will decide on in time.”

The candor was a blade, and she had just tested its edge.

Azriel’s lips curved faintly — not in mirth, but in recognition of a fellow strategist. “You may find me… less malleable than you expect.”

Her gaze flicked over him, calculating. “So my queen has warned me.”

He almost laughed. Almost.

The wind shifted, carrying with it the faintest chill of an approaching storm. Over Charlotte’s shoulder, the sky had darkened further, the heavy clouds seeming to press lower over the garden walls.

“I’ll make you a promise, Lady Charlotte,”he said, rising finally to his full height. He stepped closer, close enough that the faint scent of her perfume — something floral but edged with spice — mingled with the damp air between them. “You will not get what my mother promised you. Not unless I decide you’ve earned it. And trust me… I don’t give easily.”

She looked up at him without flinching, the corners of her mouth tilting into the barest suggestion of a smile. “Then perhaps, Your Highness… you’ve just made this far more interesting.”

The words lingered between them, charged, as the first rumble of distant thunder rolled across the horizon.

From the high balcony above the gardens, Queen Abigail watched in silence, her fingers lightly gripping the railing. A smile — small, unreadable — curved her lips. Her pieces were on the board, and the game had begun.

But she was not the only one who knew how to play.

The low growl of thunder faded, but neither moved. Charlotte’s gaze stayed locked on his, unyielding, as though daring him to make the first retreat.

Azriel did not.

A drop of rain broke against the marble at their feet, a small herald of the storm creeping closer. Somewhere beyond the hedges, the faint scurry of servants could be heard as they hurried to shelter.

“You’ll find I don’t frighten easily,” she said at last, her voice barely above the wind.

Azriel’s smile deepened — slow, deliberate. “Good,” he murmured. “Because fear is useless here. Only strength survives.”