Chapter 1

Twilight filtered through the stained glass of the royal dressing chamber, casting fractured colors across discarded ceremonial garments and the glint of a silver decanter teetering at the edge of a table. The scent of spilled wine mingled with citrus oil and something vaguely floral, perhaps, the remnants of a crushed corsage.

Prince Thalen stood shirtless before the tall mirror, his hair tousled, his eyes glassy. Though his frame was lean and muscular, his stomach now pushed slightly against the waistband of his trousers, bloated from indulgence. He hummed off-key while swirling wine in a goblet, completely unbothered by the disarray around him.

A servant crouched at his feet, attempting to fasten his boots while dodging peach pits strewn like battlefield debris. The heavy chamber doors creaked open.

Queen Syriel entered, regal as ever, her presence sharp and commanding. She took one look at the scene and stopped, her eyes narrowing.

“You’re drunk,” she said flatly.

Thalen turned with theatrical flair, lifting his goblet in salute.

“Correct. Three goblets of wine, one heart shattered, and a button burst from overeating.” He patted his stomach with mock pride. “Shall I add a poem?”

“You are meeting your future bride in less than an hour,” she said, jaw tight.

“Then she’ll meet me as I truly am,” Thalen replied with a grand sweep of his arms. “A man in the throes of state-sanctioned despair.”

“You will compose yourself.”

“Oh, I shall,” he said, lips curling into a grin. “I’m composing a tragedy. It begins with a mother who marries off her only son like he’s a fruit basket.” A small hiccup rolled out to punctuate the pain of his last sentence.

“This marriage secures peace, land, and your claim to the throne,” Syriel said, her voice clipped and icy.

“I don’t want the throne!” Thalen shot back. “I want to be left alone with my lover, my lute, and a long nap!”

He turned sharply, nearly knocking over the decanter. A servant caught it midair with practiced ease. Unfazed, Thalen downed the rest of his wine and slammed the goblet down.

“But no,” he continued, “instead I must become a glorious little hog prince for the court to gawk at. I shall eat. I shall drink. I shall merrily mortify the bloodline!”

He let out a loud, unapologetic burp and staggered toward the mirror, examining himself with critical amusement.

“I hope the princess sees exactly what she’s marrying,” he muttered, then turned to his mother, raising an eyebrow. “Still think she’ll want to marry your son after tonight?”

Queen Syriel’s expression barely shifted, but her nostrils flared.

“You will not embarrass this family,” she said coldly.

Thalen offered a slow, theatrical bow.

“Oh, Mother,” he murmured with a smirk.
“It’s far too late for that.”