Chapter 2 The Heir's Choice.

The room stilled beneath the weight of his presence.

Two guards stood frozen in place, their fingers twitching near their blades, though neither dared to reach for them now.

Hope remained pressed against the wall, eyes wide and lips parted in disbelief, her breathing shallow and uneven.

Zavian Caelum Solare stepped farther inside, his boots echoing ominously on the stone floor.

The door groaned shut behind him, sealing the silence.

"I said," he repeated, his voice like steel wrapped in flame, "step away from her."

The older of the two guards-a burly man with a scar dragging across his cheek-swallowed audibly and took one cautious step back.

"Your Highness," he muttered, lowering his eyes, "we thought she was a spy. She looked suspicious-"

"Suspicious?" Zavian's gaze sharpened.

"Half-starved and chained? That's your spy?"

"She wouldn't answer our questions," the other guard lied, his face pale with sweat.

"We were just... trying to get her to talk."

Zavian turned his head slightly, his expression unreadable.

"With your hands on her body?"

Both men stiffened.

"She is a slave," the older one dared to say, voice small.

"No one would've known-"

Zavian's sword was at the man's throat before he finished the sentence.

The prince hadn't drawn it with flourish or warning.

One second it hung by his hip.

The next, it was pressed against skin, gleaming with menace.

"No one," Zavian echoed, his voice low, "should be treated like that. Slave or not."

The blade drew a single drop of blood before Zavian stepped back and returned the sword to its sheath with an elegant motion.

Then he turned to her.

Hope.

Or rather, the girl who hadn't yet been named.

She had not moved.

She only watched him with wide, haunted eyes, her frail form trembling slightly.

Her tattered shift clung to her form, the edge of one shoulder exposed, her legs scraped from being dragged across stone.

And then she dropped to her knees with a suddenness that startled him.

Her head bowed so low her forehead nearly touched the floor.

"Forgive me, King," she whispered, her voice like dust and music.

Zavian blinked.

A strange silence passed between them.

"I'm not a king yet," he said gently, stepping closer.

"Just a prince."

She said nothing.

Zavian crouched in front of her, slow and deliberate, until he was eye-level with her.

He took in the dark circles under her eyes, the bruises on her neck, the brokenness in her posture.

But it was when he gently reached out and tilted her chin upward that he truly saw her.

Not just the surface-the dirt, the scars, the exhaustion.

But the depth.

Her eyes held oceans. Not just pain, but depthless sorrow, as if her very soul had been broken into too many pieces to count.

And yet... there was still something there. A faint shimmer.

A flicker he couldn't name.

Compassion stirred within him. It was unfamiliar.

Foreign.

And it came before desire.

Without thinking, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead-light and warm.

A gesture not of ownership.

But of mercy.

Her body stiffened.

The guards stared, mouths agape.

Even Zavian felt a quiet shock in his chest. He hadn't meant to do that.

He didn't even know why he had.

But the act was done.

He stood slowly, lifting her to her feet with one arm.

"Your name?" he asked softly.

She hesitated.

Then lowered her gaze.

"I don't... have one."

Zavian studied her again.

She seemed so lost. Like a wraith carved from sorrow and silence.

"Then I'll give you one," he murmured.

"Hope."

Her eyes snapped back to his.

"Because that's what you look like you've forgotten."

The guards looked at each other, eyes wide with confusion and fear.

One of them opened his mouth to object, but Zavian cut him off without looking.

"She is not to be touched again. Not by anyone in this palace. Not by any soldier under my command."

He glanced at the two men sharply.

"You will be dealt with once the fires are put out."

He reached for Hope's hand-small, bruised, trembling.

She didn't resist.

He held it as if it were something fragile and sacred, then guided her out of the room, past the stunned stares of bloodied soldiers and stunned palace staff.

Once outside, where the cool evening wind still carried the scent of ash and battle, he turned to a tall rider at the base of the palace steps.

"Ryon!" Zavian called.

A dark-haired man dismounted and rushed to his prince.

"Your Highness?"

Zavian nodded at the girl beside him.

"Take her to the capital. She is to ride with you, not in chains. Find my physician. She's to be treated as a guest of the royal house. Feed her. Clothe her."

Ryon's eyes flicked between them. "She's a slave?"

"She's Hope," Zavian said quietly.

The name held weight now.

The girl said nothing as Ryon helped her into the saddle, gently positioning her behind him.

She looked back only once.

Zavian was already turning away, issuing orders to contain the fires and secure the rest of the palace.

But as he vanished into the smoke and command, she clutched the name he gave her like a secret flame.

Hope.

The journey to Solare was quiet, tense, and unreal.

Hope sat stiffly on the horse, barely believing her legs weren't chained or that her body wasn't being dragged behind a wagon like in the kingdoms before.

The man beside her, Ryon-the prince's trusted friend-kept a watchful eye, but he spoke no unnecessary words.

His gaze held both duty and curiosity, but no cruelty.

When the towering golden gates of the Solare kingdom came into view, Hope's breath hitched.

It shimmered under the setting sun like something from a forgotten dream-high walls wrapped in ivy, spires that touched the clouds, and courtyards bursting with blooming flame-lilies.

She had never seen beauty like this. Not since her home burned.

They entered without pause.

At Ryon's command, servants hurried to meet them in the courtyard, bowing with wide eyes.

"By order of Prince Zavian Caelum Solare," Ryon announced, "this girl is to be treated as a guest of the royal family. She is to be taken to the upper chambers, cleaned, clothed, and fed. No questions."

Mouths fell open, but the command was clear.

Two younger maids approached with hesitance, eyeing the dirt on Hope's face, her thin arms, the bruises peeking beneath her tattered rags.

She followed them silently through the palace halls, unsure if her feet were walking or floating.

The chamber was beyond her understanding-floor-to-ceiling windows cast soft amber light, walls laced with velvet tapestries, and a bed so large she thought it was a lie.

Still, the gossip began.

"She must be a concubine."

"He's never brought one home before."

"She doesn't even talk. Maybe she's simple."

"She's pretty. Dirty, but pretty."

"She's too thin."

A voice cut through the whispers like a blade.

"That's enough."

An older woman entered. Her posture was straight as steel, her eyes sharp and intelligent.

She wore no fancy jewels, but her presence commanded the room.

"I'm Alina. Head of the royal maids," she said.

"Your job is not to gossip. It's to serve. If Prince Zavian gave an order, you'll follow it-no more, no less."

The younger maids scurried away.

Alina turned to Hope.

She did not smile, but neither did she sneer. She reached out and brushed the girl's matted hair from her face.

"You don't look like much now," she muttered, "but I've seen things bloom in worse soil."

She led her to a steaming bath, poured with floral oils.

Hope flinched at first, unaccustomed to soft things, but Alina was firm.

"Eat," she said after she dressed her in a soft robe.

"Rest. I don't know what the prince sees in you, but he's not a fool. And he's not like other men."

Later that night, under the flicker of lanterns, Alina returned with a folded nightgown.

"I don't know what the prince wants with you," she said plainly, helping her into the garment.

"But he's not a womanizer. Never was. He doesn't care for silly games or warm bodies. This...This is strange."

She paused, studying Hope again with something unreadable in her eyes.

"I'll be watching you. Not to punish-but to understand."

Then she left, shutting the heavy door behind her with a soft click.

Hope stood alone in the center of the grand room, her bare feet sinking into thick carpets, her fingers brushing silk sheets.

Hours ago, she had been in a cold, damp cell.

Now, she stood in a royal chamber, smelling of lavender and wearing fabric finer than anything she'd touched in her life.

She sat on the edge of the bed, confused and troubled, her fingers trembling.

What did this prince-this strange, commanding prince-want from a girl like her?

She felt lost, confused and kidnapped for some reason.