power; The weight of crown.

It pulsed through Princess Khloe's body, a cruel reminder of the life she had just brought into the world. She felt hollow, as if something had been carved out of her—something she had chosen to destroy before it could destroy her.

Her attendants moved swiftly around her, preparing her for the most important day of her life. The day she would wed Prince Cullen of the Witches.

A union of power. A marriage built on deception and blood.

The wedding had to happen.

If she wanted to avenge Dean, she had to see this through.

Khloe sat motionless as the servants combed through her golden hair, working it into intricate braids woven with strings of pearls and delicate golden chains. Her body still ached from labor, but she forced herself to sit tall. She was the Crown Princess—weakness was not permitted.

Her gaze drifted to the mirror before her, where her reflection stared back, pale and cold. The emerald-green eyes that had once held warmth were now void of emotion.

She barely recognized herself.

As the maids adjusted her gown, she closed her eyes, letting herself slip into a memory.

Two years ago.

She was fourteen, just beginning to grow into her royal robes, when she first saw him.

A boy in chains.

Not just any boy—a werewolf.

Khloe had wandered away from her handmaidens, drawn by the sight of the captured werewolves working in the royal farmland. They were once rulers of the richest kingdom. Now they were nothing but slaves.

And there he was.

Tall, despite his frail state. His once-powerful frame was now lean, his skin covered in dirt and bruises. His silver hair, streaked with grime, fell messily over his face. He looked broken… yet unyielding.

His chains clanked as he dug into the soil.

Something about him made her pause.

She had seen many werewolf captives, but this one… this one felt different.

Her fingers brushed over the fruit in her basket. Without thinking, she stepped forward and placed an apple in his hand, followed by her water gourd.

He looked up sharply, their eyes meeting.

The world tilted.

A strange voice whispered through her mind—deep, rough, unfamiliar.

"Mate."

Khloe's heart slammed against her ribs.

Her breath hitched, and she instinctively glanced around. Who had spoken?

The other werewolves remained focused on their work, their chains rattling with every movement. None of them had spoken.

And yet, she had heard it.

She turned back to the boy—his golden eyes locked onto hers, piercing through every layer of her being.

He smiled.

God, one could kill for a smile like his.

A slow, devastating smile that sent heat curling through her chest.

"Thank you," he said, his voice like the low hum of a distant storm.

Khloe had never felt so unsettled. So alive.

She barely managed a nod before stepping back, her fingers trembling.

She had never forgotten that moment.

The day she met Dean.

The day she unknowingly fell in love.

---

The Wedding Preparations

"Your Highness?"

Khloe blinked. The memory dissolved like mist in the morning sun.

The maids had finished dressing her. Olivia stood closest, watching her carefully.

"It is time."

Khloe rose slowly, her body protesting every movement. But pain was nothing compared to the emptiness inside her.

She turned toward the mirror.

Her wedding gown was unlike anything ever made before.

It was crafted from the finest silk, dyed a deep, regal crimson—a color that spoke of both royalty and spilled blood. The fabric shimmered under the candlelight, each fold catching the glow like liquid fire.

Golden embroidery, shaped like intertwining dragons and wolves, slithered up the bodice, symbols of power and war. Tiny rubies adorned the edges of her sleeves, catching the light like droplets of blood.

The skirt flowed like water, the sheer veil cascading down her back, its edges laced with delicate golden thread.

On her head sat a crown, unlike her father's. This was a crown made for a Queen-to-be.

Forged from pure obsidian and gold, the headpiece curled like the horns of a dragon, a testament to the power she would wield.

She was no blushing bride.

She was a queen of vengeance.

Khloe reached up and traced the smooth, cold surface of her bracelet. Dean's bracelet.

The only thing she had left of him.

The doors to her chamber opened.

The time had come.

Olivia bowed deeply. "The King is waiting."

Khloe straightened, ignoring the burning ache in her stomach.

Pain did not matter.

Love did not matter.

Only power.

She would marry Cullen.

She would become Queen.

And when the time was right—

She would destroy him.

She would burn his kingdom to the ground.

The Wedding Ceremony

The temple of the witches stood tall at the heart of the kingdom, its spires entwined with veins of silver and black ivy. It was unlike any human church—there were no holy relics, only ancient symbols carved into stone, the eerie glow of floating candles casting unnatural shadows.

Khloe stood at the entrance, draped in a gown that spoke of power and conquest.

Gold-threaded silk, stolen from the conquered werewolf lands, wrapped around her like molten sunlight. Intricate embroidery, woven with crushed gemstones, shimmered under the dim glow of the temple torches. A cloak of deep crimson flowed from her shoulders, the fabric so heavy it felt like a second skin.

A crown of black diamonds and obsidian sat atop her head, its jagged edges sharp enough to draw blood. It was not the delicate circlet of a blushing bride. It was a warrior's crown.

And she was going to war.

The murmurs in the hall grew louder as she stepped forward.

"She looks like a queen already."

"A strange boldness surrounds her ..."

"Well, I have never seen human as beautiful as her, are you sure she's human?"

Khloe ignored them. Every step she took was deliberate, unwavering. She was not the broken girl they expected. She was Khloe of the Human Kingdom, daughter of a conqueror, and the future ruler of them all.

At the end of the aisle, Cullen, the witch prince, stood waiting.

His robe, woven from midnight-blue silk, shimmered with enchantments that seemed to move like liquid stardust. His silver hair was slicked back, revealing sharp, angular features that betrayed neither excitement nor reluctance.

Khloe met his gaze. Cold. Calculating.

She hated him.

She hated him with every part of her soul.

But she smiled.

Not a smile of love. A smile of control.

The High Priest, an ancient sorcerer draped in violet robes, stepped forward. "Princess Khloe of the Human Kingdom, Prince Cullen of the Witches, today marks the union of our two great bloodlines. By ancient law, you shall stand as husband and wife, bound by magic, power, and duty."

Khloe lifted her chin. "Let us proceed."

The ministers exchanged uncertain glances. This was not the timid girl they had seen before.

Cullen took a step forward. "Princess Khloe, do you accept this bond?"

Silence stretched.

The High Priest frowned. "Princess?"

Khloe tilted her head. "Do I have a choice?"

Gasps rippled through the crowd. The human princess had spoken back—challenged the ceremony itself.

Cullen's golden eyes flickered with amusement. "You are bold today, little wife."

Khloe smiled. "And you are foolish to think I was ever not."

The High Priest coughed, clearly displeased. "The bond shall be sealed. May the gods bear witness to this sacred union."

The ancient binding spell wrapped around them like invisible chains, searing into her skin, marking her as Cullen's wife in both name and magic.

A strange energy pulsed between them. Khloe ignored it.

This was not a union. This was her first step toward vengeance.

The Throne Room Confrontation

The wedding feast had barely begun when Khloe rose from her seat.

The hall stilled. The nobles, witches, and ministers turned toward her in confusion.

She stepped forward, her cloak trailing behind her like a river of blood. Her voice, clear and sharp, cut through the air like a blade.

"This marriage was meant to secure peace. To unite our kingdoms. But let us not forget one simple truth."

She turned, eyes locking onto King Magnus, Cullen's father, who sat upon her father's throne.

Gasps. Murmurs. A minister nearly dropped his goblet.

Khloe stepped closer. "You sit in a seat that does not belong to you."

King Magnus's dark eyes narrowed. "Careful, girl."

Khloe smiled. "No. You be careful."

She turned to the room. "This is my kingdom. My father conquered the werewolves and forged this alliance. This throne belongs to the human crown."

Cullen tensed beside her, his fingers twitching at his side. "Khloe, you—"

"Silence."

The hall fell into stunned silence.

She faced King Magnus once more. "Your reign ends today. Step down."

The entire room erupted in shocked whispers, some horrified, others impressed.

The ministers—who had doubted her, who had once spoken over her—looked at her now with newfound fear.

Cullen's lips curled into something unreadable. Was it amusement? Admiration? Annoyance?

King Magnus chuckled darkly. "And if I refuse?"

Khloe lifted her chin. "Then you will see what happens when you underestimate a queen."

A storm was coming.

And Khloe was the one who would unleash it.

The hall held its breath, waiting for what came next.

King Magnus leaned forward, expression unreadable. "You think you can command me, girl?"

Khloe did not blink. "I am not a girl. I am the rightful ruler. And you will bow."

Silence.

Then—a slow, dangerous smile spread across Magnus's face.