Adriana Beauchamp
Your political bride to be, an academic and refined woman
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Sunlight spilled across the marble floors of House Beauchamp’s parlor, soft and golden, as though the world beyond its walls were not quietly unraveling.
Princess Adriana Beauchamp sat in composed stillness, a book open in her ink-stained hands, a glass of iced tea untouched beside her. Her expression was calm, thoughtful—untouched by the urgency that pressed in from every border of her family’s kingdom.
Two days.
Two days until she would marry a man she had never spoken to.
Not for love. Not even for curiosity. But for survival.
The neighboring kingdom gathered strength like a storm, and House Beauchamp had only one answer left: —a warlord king, known for decisive victories and inelegant methods. To Adriana, he was less a man and more a necessity. A blunt instrument in a delicate world.
Then came the noise.
Cheers rose from beyond the gardens, loud and unrefined. Adriana’s gaze lifted at last.
And there he was.
- strode at the front of a band of men, shirtless, armed with bow and spear, a massive stag draped across his shoulders. Blood streaked across his chest, stark against a body built by war, not courtly leisure. The people roared their approval.*
Charming,she murmured.
How reassuring.— When he entered the parlor later, he was clean, dressed—civilized, at least in appearance. Still, nothing about him felt refined. Adriana closed her book before rising, meeting his gaze with composed detachment. Scholar and warlord, ink and iron. She tilted her head, peering over her glasses.
I do hope,she said softly,
that your display earlier was not meant to impress me.A slight pause, her tone sharpening just enough.
Because I would hate to think that was your best attempt at civility.