Chapter 1

THE SKY WASpale with watery light, sun still hanging low in the east, but March Cesari had been up since before dawn. His daily run through the quiet streets of his small town had been uneventful, exactly the way he liked things. He now stood, loose and limber, before the haphazard collection of targets fashioned into a wall behind his home. The chill of spring still clung stubbornly to the air, unwilling to give way to summer's heat, so the light burn in his slender muscles was mostly pleasant.

Picking up his favored rosewood bow, March ran his fingertips over the length of the instrument, pleased with the textures. It gleamed beautifully with fanciful leaves and vines hand-carved into the riser. Fine silver in-lay shimmered in ornate curls throughout. It had been a present from his parents for his 18th birthday, created for him by a master bowyer. It still delighted him each time he used it, though he'd had two birthdays since.

Straightening his spine, he notched an arrow and pulled it back, his eyes focused with the sharp intensity granted to him by his heritage. Pulling a slow breath into his lungs, he let the arrow fly. It hit home, dead center of the painted target, with a dull thunk. He laid an arrow into the center of all two dozen of his targets before collecting them back into the quiver and putting them away.

The blood of ancient hunters flowed through his veins, and March was proud to have it. He'd never let dust settle on the history books describing his noble bloodline, nor would he spit in the face of his ancestors by letting his natural talent for archery go to waste. Even if hunting animals for food or taking down human opponents with lethally-aimed arrows were incredibly far removed concepts from his reality.

Entering his home through the entrance in the back, he traveled through the tidy kitchen, as he always did after his morning exercise. A creature of relentless habit, the appeal of spontaneity had always eluded him. Though he'd begun his morning in the way that he most often did, he knew very well that the day wouldn't continue in the comfortable manner he was accustomed to.

"Good morning, dear." One of his moms, Amalie, greeted him as she cracked eggs into a bowl. A thick braid of blonde hair tumbled down her back, complimenting her sunny looks. He hadn't inherited much from her in the way of appearance, but his perfectionism and tendency for scholarly pursuits had certainly come to him via her genetics. Though he often wished he'd been granted her extroverted social graces as well.

"Good morning, Mother." He turned to the other woman seated at the table, scouring over a newspaper. "Motra." He referred to her with the word for mother in the ancient language, the common way to make distinction between two female parents.

Roman raised her eyes to him, a mirror reflection of his own, giving him a warm smile. "Morning, my love." Cesari genes were infamously dominant, so it was wholly unsurprising that he and his younger brother looked eerily like her, pale skin with strikingly dark features. "Your mother and I need to talk to you about something."

March felt a lick of anxiety slide through his stomach, already certain of what the topic of the conversation would be. "After breakfast, please."

"Of course," Roman agreed. She often puzzled over her oldest son's obsession for routine, but saw no reason to try and break him of it.

LIKE MOST THINGSfor him, March's showers were quick and efficient. As he meticulously soaped and rinsed, he considered the fact that he was encroaching upon a particularly important step in the life plan he'd outlined for himself. Marrying a wealthy and important aristocrat was one thing, and wouldn't be particularly difficult for a traditionally attractive young noble like himself, but he knew he wouldn't be satisfied with that alone.

Even if it was an arranged marriage, he wanted a healthy and mutually satisfying bond, like what his parents had. On the same hand, he wasn't willing to compromise on a husband that could provide for him and their eventual children, both financially and with a name and title that they could be proud to carry.

He only hoped he'd mingled enough, sounded intelligent enough, and looked enticing enough, at the few balls and parties he'd attended throughout the years. As long as he'd done that, then he'd hopefully acquire enough offers for his hand that he'd have his pick of options.

After he'd finished, he leaned into the mirror, scrutinizing his face for blemishes or wrinkles. Finding his complexion satisfactory, he plucked a stray hair from under the perfect arch of one of his inky eyebrows. His hair was the same shade, true black, an intriguing contrast to his ivory pale skin, though nothing particularly rare or special, in his opinion. His eyes, however, were another matter.

Another gift of his heritage, those with Cesari blood had eyes that glimmered with an iridescent sheen, and could perceive things that weren't typically possible by other humans. It was rare, and enticing to others, as he knew. Though he took pride in his lineage, he hated the attention he received from those who marveled over the anomaly.

As he gently patted moisturizer into his skin, the bathroom door opened with a rude bang. This, too, was routine. His brother, younger by five years, stumbled in to splash water on his face in an attempt to wake himself up. Stepping aside to give room at the sink, March pulled floss between his teeth.

"They said they have to talk to me about something," the elder sibling said as he watched Myca sop at his dripping face with a towel.

"You know what that means," the boy responded, dragging a finger across his throat. "Sucks to be you."

Like March, Myca had a slight, slender build and a pixie face with long-lidded eyes fringed by thick, dark lashes. His eyes also swirled with an unnatural range of kaleidoscopic colors, usually holding a mischievous gleam in them. Appearance was where the similarities ended. March had never been able to understand Myca's interest in alternative fashion, or the joy he found in skirting tradition.

"You shouldn't say that."

"Oh, please, don't act like you're excited about being sold off to the highest bidder."

The callous way Myca described the act of accepting an offer for matrimony had March's stomach pitching. "I won't accept a proposal from anyone just because they have money. There are other things I need as well."

"Still," Myca argued, propping his butt onto the counter. "Half the guys making offers don't even know you. They just like the way you look."

"It's not unreasonable to expect to be attracted to your spouse," March pointed out, ignoring the jolt of embarrassment that struck him at the statement. "I wouldn't consider marrying someone I was physically repulsed by, either."

"Well, there's no way I'm getting stuck saddled to some stuffy, boring aristocrat just because he wonders what it would be like to fuck me."

"Myca!" March chided, face burning as he nearly choked on his spit. "What do you even know about that, anyway?"

"I'm fifteen, not five." The teenager shrugged, unrepentant. "I'm just telling the truth about it."

"The arranged marriage process is what helps keep our blood noble." And that, in March's opinion, outweighed whatever initial discomfort he was sure he'd experience in the process. "You think Motra and Mother don't love each other?"

"They do," Myca admitted, hopping off the counter to exit the bathroom. "But it's not like every marriage is like that."

"Arranged marriages have a lower divorce rate than those chosen by free will." He'd done plenty of research on the subject. Not that he would have rejected his duties even if he hadn't been able to find evidence that supported the institution as a whole. But it was a particularly gratifying statistic.

March glanced at himself one more time in the mirror, satisfied with the way the choppy pieces of his bangs flirted across his brow and ears, before flipping off the bathroom light and following Myca down the stairs.

He didn't consider himself vain, exactly. But as someone who was expected to marry into a high-ranking noble family now that he was of age, he considered nurturing his looks to be part of his job. Not being able to secure a suitable husband was a shame he wasn't sure he could bear.

"That's because people in arranged marriages sleep around."

"That is a negative stereotype," March said stiffly, nearly shuddering at the very thought. "As if I'd marry the type of person who would even think about an extramarital affair."

They walked into the kitchen, where Amalie was sliding food from the pan onto plates.

"And how exactly are you going to keep this imaginary guy from getting bored with you and seeking out extramarital activities?" Myca asked, blinking innocently when March's eyes narrowed, face once again reddening. "You better make sure he's into your whole blush and swoon routine before you sign anything."

"Myca, stop teasing your brother," Amalie ordered, pointing to a chair. "Sit down and eat."

"Keep talking like that, boy, and I'm going to lock you up until you're of age," Roman warned firmly. She sighed as Myca painted an innocuous expression on his deceptively cherubic face, flouncing into his chair.

It wasn't written in stone, but it was more or less an unspoken rule that those in houses that accepted proposals from the more aristocratic families remained virgins until they went to their marriage bed. Again, to do otherwise would be to risk your reputation, and significantly lower your options for a suitable spouse.

After the meal was finished, the plates cleared from the table and dumped into a soapy sink, March waited to hear his fate.

"We'd like to begin discussing the offers we've gotten for you," Roman finally said. March gave a nod in response, hoping his nerves wouldn't show too much on his face.

He'd given them a basic list of requirements, asking that they didn't inform him of the offers that didn't meet the prerequisites. He would only consider a man who was of high noble status, who hadn't been married before, and who wasn't more than seven years his senior. Seven years wasn't a terribly large gap in his opinion, but he'd heard enough horror stories of predatory aristocrats who preferred young, innocent men to scare him off from anything more.

"These are what we've received so far," Amalie added, tapping a finger on a thick stack of envelopes. The majority of them were made from sturdy, expensive paper and had their family names in fancy, looping scrawl with colorful, ornately stamped wax to seal them shut.

"How many out of those meet my qualifications?" March asked, feeling a bit queasy in his stomach. He'd expected to feel nervous, but not quite so intensely.

"These are the ones that meet your qualifications," Roman answered wryly. "The pile we've already sent rejections back to was much larger."

Being born into the house of Cesari, she'd gone through the arranged marriage process at 20 as well. She'd gotten lucky choosing Amalie, an infectiously cheerful bookworm from a family of high standing, but the thought of giving her son to a relative stranger made her uneasy. She wondered how her own mother must have felt, sifting through letters from nobles asking for her hand.

"You mean these are all… Viable options for me?" March asked, shocked and vaguely embarrassed. There had to be a dozen letters there, perhaps more. And he'd only been of age for a month. More would come, he knew.

"Are there any from anyone actually cool?" Myca asked, punctuating his question with a scoff. He pulled the pile closer to himself and began to paw through them.

"It seems you're rather popular," Roman said. It didn't shock her in the slightest. Both of their sons were appealing to look at, but only March had the submissive, dutiful personality that most noble families drooled for. She could see a bit of herself in him, mostly in the introverted, insecure part that worried so much what others would think of him. She only hoped that he would end up with someone that could help bring him out of his shell a bit, as she had.

"But," Amalie chimed in, glancing at her wife nervously. "There's actually something else we need to talk to you about, before you consider any of these offers, or the others we're expecting."

"Alright…" March agreed automatically, but shifted nervously in his seat, anxiety growing at the caution in her tone.

"We received another offer for you."

"Not in the envelopes?" He asked, gesturing to the formerly neat pile. They were scattered over the table now according to Myca's preference.

Roman shook her head. "Someone else reached out to us. He asked to meet in person to discuss the terms of his offer. That's where we were yesterday."

"Oh," March realized, remembering they'd been gone most of the day. "I had no idea."

"He asked us not to discuss it with you until we knew all of the details."

"Who is this offer from?" March asked curiously. He wasn't sure how he felt about someone who would try to skirt around the tradition of proposing by formal letter. Sure, it wasn't the most convenient way, but…

"King Beritz," Amalie answered. March's eyes grew wide, while Myca grimaced.

"Sick! He's, like, old."

"King Beritz wants to marry me?" March voiced, his sentiment echoing Myca's. He was an unquestionably beloved king, and his wife had died nearly two decades ago. Beritz was a fiercely loyal man who knew the difference between right and wrong and never wavered on the distinction. Still, March couldn't imagine himself with the rotund, middle-aged man.

He'd met the ruler a handful of times, as Amalie had attended finishing school with him when they'd been teenagers, and they had maintained a friendly relationship since. Their family had been invited to royal events at the castle more than a few times, which they usually attended, though the kingdom of Ikronia was a fair ride away from their home.

That was fine, though. March was used to traveling ridiculous distances in order to get to anything worthy. The small town of Kesmos his parents had decided to abandon civilized society for was woefully small, and consisted mostly of laborers and farmers. They were, in fact, the only family in the area with any noble blood at all, a matter that gnawed at him on a near daily basis. They'd even had to have a private tutor come to stay with them for a year, in lieu of him attending a finishing school after his primary schooling had finished.

"Don't be ridiculous," Amalie shook her head at the pair of them in mild exasperation. "His offer was on behalf of Prince Nero."

Myca's jaw dropped, while March felt his stomach do the same.

"Prince Nero?" Myca repeated, voice dripping with envy. "Wait, are you sure that's not a mistake? I mean, he's actually cool. And totally hot," he added, obvious admiration for the Prince of Dragons coming through loud and clear in his youthful bluntness.

"Are you trying to get a rise out of me?" Roman asked dryly, turning to her younger son.

"Sorry," he said quickly, though his tone indicated no regret for voicing the opinion. "I just mean he's, you know… Well, you know what I mean."

"No," March said suddenly, his throat suddenly dry. "The answer is no. Prince Neroki isn't for me."

"What!?"

Ignoring Myca's outburst, Roman put a hand over March's, stroking his fingers, concerned by the sheer horror in his eyes. "Why are you so opposed?"

"He's rude," March said, feeling heat creep up his neck. "And crude. He's a lazy, lackadaisical playboy." And he was a pervert, March thought, but neglected to voice that part. The story of how he'd met the prince at a noble banquet years back had been too embarrassing for him to ever tell his parents, or anyone else. He doubted he ever would.

Amalie and Roman glanced at each other again, communicating volumes through their silent eye contact. Glancing back at March to study his concern-stricken face, Amalie could feel waves of love and puzzlement for him warring inside her. She loved him as much as it was possible to love, but… There were times she wondered how she and Roman could have created such a cautious, timid person.

"I can understand your unease," Roman said carefully. "But His Majesty…" She trailed off, wondering how she could tell her son that he was expected to go through with something that he so clearly didn't want to do.

"King Beritz would like you to stay at the castle. Temporarily," Amalie added quickly, when March made a small noise of distress. "You would stay for just a single season, and learn about the culture of Ikronia. It's a good opportunity for you."

It would have been a wonderful opportunity for anyone. But the circumstance that he would be staying under… It was almost too much to bear. He knew firsthand how sinfully dangerous someone like Neroki could be, but could he really refuse a request of that magnitude from their king?

"It would be ungrateful to refuse his offer, I know," March admitted, hating the idea of appearing discourteous in the eyes of their king. Beritz had always been kind to him, though he'd not spent much time in his presence. Even without the personal aspect of the king's relationship with his mother, the thought of turning down such an invitation felt scandalous to him.

"Does that mean we could come to the castle, too?" Myca asked excitedly.

"To visit, not to stay," Amalie said, giving him a warning look.

"Can I have some time to think it over?" March asked, voice meek. He'd never been away from home, or his family before.

"Of course, honey." Amalie rose from her seat, wrapping him in her arms. She rested her chin on the dark crown of his hair, watching Roman squeeze his hand encouragingly.

"Take all the time you need," his motra added. "We'll support you no matter what you decide."

"Seriously?" Myca asked incredulously. "What's there to think about? It's Prince Nero! Like you're really going to bag a guy hotter than that."

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Roman heaved a long suffering sigh. "Myca. Dishes. Now."

"Aw, come on."

"Now," she repeated, pointing to the sink. The younger Cesari sibling rose from his seat, grumbling under his breath, but began washing them all the same.

March, feeling slightly numb, nuzzled into his mother's embrace, trying to think about anything other than Prince Neroki.