Main Characters:

Princess Liora Solaria

Magic type: Light illusions + charm spells

Personality: Think Regina George meets Elle Woods but secretly lonely and emotionally deep.

Favorite spell: Glamours, fake smiles, and sparkles that blind her enemies.

Secret: She doesn’t want to rule—she wants freedom.

General Riven Thorne of Umbra

Magic type: War magic, dark energy, elemental control

Personality: Stoic, broody, thinks flirting is a strategic weakness

Favorite weapon: Literally a sword made of lightning

Secret: He writes poetry about her in his journal. No, you can’t read it.

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Scene: Royal Announcement Hall, Solaria Palace

Princess Liora Solaria adjusted her glittering tiara with the grace of someone who knew she looked good in a scandal. The hall was packed—nobles, journalists, even a few nosy fae—and every single one of them waited with bated breath.

“Smile,” her mother whispered through clenched teeth. “You’re making history.”

“No, Mother,” Liora replied, eyes locked on the man across from her. “I’m making a terrible decision.”

Enter General Riven Thorne of Umbra.

Tall, dressed in char-black armor laced with cold silver, and wearing the exact expression of someone who’d rather be fighting a dragon than attending a royal engagement party. His arms were crossed, his jaw clenched, and his lightning eyes locked with hers like they were already mid-duel.

Liora hated him instantly.

Which was inconvenient, considering they were now betrothed.

“Princess Liora Solaria,” the High Chancellor announced. “Do you accept this union for the good of both realms?”

Liora plastered on her best “I’m not panicking” smile. “I accept… under magical protest.”

The crowd chuckled.

“And General Riven Thorne?”

He didn’t even blink. “I accept. She’ll learn discipline eventually.”

Liora turned her head so fast it nearly broke royal protocol. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said what I said.”

Their magical auras flared on instinct—golden shimmer against crackling blue. Half the crowd stepped back. One poor duke fainted into his wine.

“Oh, you’re going to regret saying that,” she whispered sweetly.

“I already do.”

---

Scene: Later that evening, in the Grand Ballroom

It was supposed to be a diplomatic waltz. Instead, it was a battlefield with string music.

Liora stepped onto the dance floor in a gown enchanted to sparkle brighter with every insult she delivered. Riven’s storm-magic shimmered around him, making his cape float like he thought he was some kind of tragic romantic hero.

He took her hand. Electricity met light.

“Try not to step on me,” she murmured.

“No promises,” he replied.

They danced. They spun. They traded barbs sharp enough to cut glass.

But when her heel slipped—just slightly—he caught her. Hand firm at her waist. Eyes locked.

And for a breathless second, the war quieted.

“You don’t like me,” she whispered.

“No,” he said. “But I’m starting to understand you.”

Liora’s heart did something traitorous. But instead of responding, she twirled away, leaving behind a trail of glitter and confusion.

---

Scene: Royal Garden Pavilion – Press Conference, the next morning

Princess Liora Solaria adjusted the line of her enchanted bodice, which shimmered with subtle charm spells designed to distract. Her heels clicked dramatically on the marble floor as she took her seat beside General Riven Thorne, the only man in the empire who could wear all black and still somehow look like a thunderstorm about to ruin your afternoon tea.

She looked perfect. He looked furious.

Balance, as always, was restored.

Dozens of reporters leaned forward, enchanted quills floating in midair. Overhead, magical mirrors broadcast the scene across the continent. The engagement of the century—Solaria’s crown jewel and Umbra’s weapon of mass brooding—had captured public obsession overnight.

“Smile,” Liora murmured without looking at him.

“I am smiling,” Riven replied, deadpan.

She side-eyed him. “That’s your war face. You’re terrifying the pixies.”

Across from them, one of the floating pixie reporters shivered and ducked behind her glitter pad.

The Royal Press Secretary stepped forward. “Let us now open the floor for questions for our radiant royal couple.”

A bold journalist raised her hand first. “Princess Liora—what was your first impression of General Thorne?”

Liora smiled, all teeth and sparkle. “I thought, ‘Ah, there’s the man who probably irons his socks and glares at sunsets.’”

Laughter rippled through the crowd. Riven didn’t flinch.

“And you, General Thorne?” the journalist asked. “What did you think of Her Highness?”

“I thought,” Riven said without missing a beat, “There’s the woman who weaponizes charm like a blade and expects everyone to thank her for the stab wound.”

The laughter doubled.

Liora’s brows lifted in mock admiration. “Look at you. Almost funny.”

“Almost,” he agreed with a smirk that was dangerously close to flirtation.

Another reporter shot her hand up. “General, when did you realize you were falling in love?”

Riven blinked once. “I haven’t.”

Oof. The crowd gaspsnorted.

Liora turned to him slowly, smile sugar-coated and deadly. “Yet.”

Murmurs broke out instantly. One pixie dropped her inkpot. A noble fainted in the third row.

Riven leaned closer, voice low. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”

“I thrive on it,” she whispered. “It’s called charisma. You should try it sometime.”

---

Scene: Behind the Pavilion – Ten Minutes Later

The two slipped out “for air” under the excuse of magical fatigue, which was code for we need to argue where nobody can fine us for diplomatic misconduct.

They stood near the rose hedges, framed by soft light and spiraling flower spells.

“You humiliated me in front of fifty nobles,” Riven snapped, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“You said you weren’t in love with me,” Liora shot back, crossing her arms. “It’s called mutual sabotage, darling.”

“I don’t lie.”

“Oh, so brutal honesty is your entire personality now?”

Riven’s glare crackled with tiny arcs of blue lightning. Liora’s dress sparkled with aggressive elegance.

Before either could escalate further, a faint buzzing noise emerged from the hedge.

“What… is that?” Riven asked, drawing a protective sigil mid-air.

The rose bush trembled.

Then—BOOM—a swarm of pixies exploded into the air, sparkling, squealing, and waving teeny-tiny scrolls like tabloid flyers.

“Make a wish!” one cried, trying to braid Liora’s hair.

“Kiss for the kingdom!” yelled another.

“Show us the ring!!”

Riven instinctively raised a shielding spell, but Liora was already ducking, dodging, and fending them off with a bejeweled fan.

“Do something!” she hissed. “This is a PR nightmare!”

Riven summoned a pulse of crackling storm magic that swept the pixies away like leaves in the wind—disheveled, giggling, and thoroughly enchanted.

Silence fell. Liora’s hair was full of glitter. Riven’s cape had been stolen by a rogue pixie.

She stared at him, breathless. “Was that your idea of a romantic gesture?”

“No,” he muttered. “That was survival.”

Then she did something unexpected—she laughed.

A real laugh. Sparkling and unguarded.

And Riven, for just a moment, forgot to be annoyed.

“You laugh like that often?” he asked before he could stop himself.

Liora smirked. “Only when I survive pixie attacks with my dignity intact.”

She reached up, brushing a stray petal from his shoulder—and their hands touched. Just briefly.

Magic shimmered in the air between them.

The silence felt heavier than before. Not awkward… just charged.

And neither of them said a word about it.

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Scene: The Grand Banquet Hall – That Evening

The chandeliers blazed like bottled constellations. Music swirled from enchanted instruments, and nobles adorned in shimmering silk and enchanted metals glided across the floor like peacocks in a parade.

Princess Liora entered fashionably late, descending the sweeping staircase like a storm in heels. Her gown was silver with a gradient of twilight blues, and tiny illusion-moths fluttered around her shoulders for dramatic effect.

A hush fell. Then applause. Applause for her. Of course.

But her triumphant strut faltered when she reached the head table.

There were two name cards.

One chair.

Classic.

“Only one of us can sit,” she said to Riven, who stood waiting with arms crossed and jaw clenched.

“I vote you,” he said, ever the gentleman, though his tone could’ve frozen lava.

She narrowed her eyes. “What’s your angle?”

“Public peace.”

Suspicious. Uncomfortably diplomatic.

Then she saw the woman seated just beside him. Tall. Impossibly graceful. Silver hair wound in an intricate braid. An Umbra military badge pinned to her deep violet uniform.

Liora’s heart stopped for half a second.

“Ah,” she said with a tight smile. “You must be… his mother?”

The woman’s eyes sparkled with cool amusement. “General Vaela Dusk. Commander of the Western Front. And once, his fiancée.”

Cue the internal screaming.

“Former fiancée?” Liora repeated slowly. “Oh, how quaint.” Her voice practically dripped with royal sarcasm.

“She saved my life,” Riven said, stiffly.

“Oh, how romantic.” Liora slid gracefully into the lone seat between them, lifting her wine glass in a silent don’t test me toast.

Vaela sipped her drink, unbothered. “I was simply curious if this engagement was sincere… or if it was a polished political farce.”

Liora gave her a perfect smile, the kind that had sent lesser nobles into tears. “Well, darling. I’d say the sparks are real. Wouldn’t you, General Thorne?”

Riven said nothing. But his eye twitched. Just slightly.

Liora: 1

Vaela: Undecided.

---

Scene: Dessert – An Hour Later

The tension at the head table could’ve shattered goblets. By the time dessert arrived, Liora was regretting not charming the chef into “accidentally” spilling soup on her rival.

A waiter floated over, bearing an ornate crystal tray. On it: two glowing eclairs.

“Enchanted pastries,” the waiter announced. “From the Sorcerer’s Guild of Savoré. They reveal the deepest desire of whoever eats them.”

The nobles gasped with delight. Liora narrowed her eyes like a cat watching a cursed mouse.

“Oh, how adorable,” Vaela said, clearly amused. “Care to demonstrate, Princess?”

Liora looked at Riven. “Do you believe in magical truth desserts?”

“I believe in premeditated humiliation.”

“That’s a yes.”

Before he could object, Liora snatched one of the glowing eclairs and took a bite.

The pastry vanished instantly, and in its place, a magical illusion shimmered above the table—visible to the entire hall.

It was Liora, standing in her royal bedroom, in a fluffy robe and slippers, practicing saying—

“Princess Thorne.”

Over and over. In different tones. With a blush.

The crowd erupted into whispers and delighted giggles.

Liora didn’t blink. She simply lifted her chin and said, “Well, I do like the sound of power.”

“Your turn,” she added smugly.

Riven growled something low and probably inappropriate for public settings.

He picked up the other eclair. Ate it in one bite. No hesitation.

Another illusion rose above them: Riven, sitting at his war desk, shirt sleeves rolled up, stormlight crackling from his fingertips. He wasn’t drafting strategies. He was writing in a journal.

Glowing letters on the page spelled out one name. Over and over.

“Liora.”

Gasps. Audible gasps. Someone in the back dropped a tray.

The illusion faded.

Silence fell.

Liora blinked, caught between flattered and flustered. Her heart did something weird, like a pirouette.

Riven coughed, refusing to look at her. “In my defense, that was classified.”

“You’re more dramatic than I am,” she whispered. “That’s deeply unsettling.”

“Say nothing.”

“I’m saying everything,” she said, glowing.

He finally met her gaze. And oh… there it was. That spark. That slow-burning tension threatening to become something neither of them planned for.

Before either could speak, Vaela calmly dabbed her lips with her napkin.

“Well,” she said. “That answers that.”

Liora smirked and tossed her hair. “Welcome to the show.”

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