A sharp knock on the door dragged Belin from the depths of sleep. His body tensed as his mind caught up with reality, the weight of responsibility settling heavily upon his chest. The world outside was still cloaked in the dim embrace of dawn, a faint orange glow barely beginning to stretch across the horizon. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, reached for his linen shirt, and pulled it over his broad shoulders before stepping toward the door.
The heavy wooden door creaked open, revealing one of Lord Gruhl's men standing stiffly outside. His expression was unreadable, but his tone carried the weight of duty.
"Lord Gruhl sent me. He needs your presence." The man delivered his message and turned swiftly on his heel, disappearing down the corridor before Belin could utter a word.
With a deep breath, Belin straightened himself and left for Lord Gruhl's chambers. His heart thudded against his ribs. He had long grown accustomed to the expectations placed upon him, yet there was something in the air today—something that unsettled him.
Upon entering the chamber, he was met with the sight of Lord Gruhl, hunched over slightly, his breathing laboured. His once-imposing frame was diminished by illness, but his eyes still gleamed with authority.
"Go to the port." Lord Gruhl's voice was rough, his words measured between struggling breaths. "My daughter—your bride—is coming home. Take her home."
Belin's muscles stiffened. He had been told Ingrid would not return for another month. Had she truly completed her studies early, or was there something more at play?
"I thought she was to return next month," he said carefully, masking his unease.
Lord Gruhl managed a weak chuckle, though it quickly turned into a cough. "It seems she finished her studies earlier than I expected." A faint smile pulled at his lips, not of mere satisfaction but of pride—a father's pride. "Oh, my sweet Ingrid. I am so proud of her."
The sincerity in his voice struck Belin like a blow. He had been told Ingrid was dull-witted, incapable of meeting the expectations set before her, yet here stood a father beaming with pride. Confusion twisted in Belin's gut, deepening the pit of doubt that had already begun to form.
"Bring her home safely. Promise me, Belin." Lord Gruhl exhaled, his breath shaky but insistent.
Belin swallowed hard and nodded. "I promise, my lord."
Lord Gruhl's gaze bore into him. "I could have sent Leofrey alone, but I want her to see you first. You are to be her husband. I want her first impression of you to be that of a strong man, a man she can depend on." He paused, inhaling deeply as though each word took great effort. "I know you are hunted by the Alassins, which is why I am sending guards with you. Their job is to fight, yours is to bring my daughter home."
Belin clenched his jaw and gave a single nod. He would do as commanded, but the storm within him had only just begun to rage.
… … …
The journey to Lyst Port was not long. Inkwell Hold sat comfortably near the coast, and from Lyst Castle to the port was merely an hour's ride. House Lyst controlled the port, ensuring its wealth flowed steadily to their coffers as merchants paid for passage and trade.
Belin rode alongside Leofrey and the guards, his thoughts a tangled mess. Every ship that arrived sent his pulse into a wild rhythm, anticipation and dread entwined in equal measure. He had spent years picturing his future wife based on whispers and secondhand accounts. They had painted her as dull, overweight, and unremarkable. Yet Lord Gruhl's eyes had shone with something different—something that gnawed at the foundation of what Belin had believed.
And then, at last, the ship arrived.
A large vessel with proud sails, teeming with passengers eager to step onto solid ground. His sharp gaze scanned the descending figures, but none matched the image he had begrudgingly formed in his mind.
"Oh, sister! Sister, sister, you're finally here!" Leofrey's voice cut through the din of the bustling port. His excitement was palpable as he strode forward, reaching out to assist a young woman as she disembarked.
Belin's breath caught.
The woman before him was not at all what he had expected. She was no frail, dim-witted girl. No. She was something else entirely.
She was beautiful.
Not just in the way poets spoke of beauty, but in a way that stole the air from his lungs. Her form was neither slight nor excessive but perfect in its balance. Her full bosom and curvaceous hips spoke of fertility, of a body built for both grace and strength. Her long white satin dress draped over her in delicate folds, accentuating the pale glow of her skin beneath the morning sun. Her green eyes, sharp and intelligent, swept over her surroundings with practiced awareness. And her golden hair, partially braided at the back, shimmered with each movement.
"Thank you," she murmured as she took Leofrey's hand.
Then, as though the strings of fate themselves had tightened, her eyes met Belin's.
For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.
Leofrey, unaware of the weight of the silence between them, cheerfully spoke. "Belin, this is Ingrid."
Belin stepped forward, as if drawn by an unseen force.
Leofrey grinned. "Ingrid, he is to be your husband."
Shock flickered across Ingrid's face, her lips parting slightly as if to form words she could not yet grasp. "Father… did not send me a letter."
The soft disbelief in her voice made Belin's chest tighten. He had not considered what this arrangement might mean for her. Had she been blindsided just as he had been?
Leofrey, ever the carefree spirit, laughed. "Yes, well, it all happened quite fast. And look at you—you've grown into a beautiful woman."
Belin's mind reeled. She was not stupid. She was not grotesque. She was intelligent, poised, and breathtaking. The rumors had lied, and he—he had been a fool to believe them.
Steeling himself, he stepped closer and bowed. "I am Belin Valemont, my lady."
Ingrid's breath hitched, her expression unreadable. "Valemont?" she whispered, as if testing the name on her tongue. "A prince of Eastanzarth?"
Belin nodded.
She turned to Leofrey, her brows drawn together in question. "Is this for real, Leo?"
Leofrey chuckled. "It is, Ingrid."
Belin extended his arm, his voice firm yet strangely gentle. "Allow me to escort you to your carriage, my lady."
Ingrid hesitated for only a second before placing her hand in his. A current of something electric passed between them. Whether it was curiosity, uncertainty, or something deeper, Belin did not know. All he knew was that his heart no longer felt the weight of dread. Instead, it was something else entirely—something dangerously close to hope.
He helped her into the carriage, ensuring she was settled before closing the door behind her. He then mounted his horse, riding behind the carriage as they set off for home. The unease he had carried that morning had not vanished, but in its place was something new.
Something that terrified him far more.