The Nine-Tailed King’s Reluctant Bride

The sun hung low over the cracked road like a coin that refused to fall. Ariya kept her eyes on the dust because looking up meant seeing faces. Men. Women. Children with dry lips and hard hands. No one met her gaze for long.

They had tied her wrists with a rope that smelled of smoke and old sweat. When she flexed her fingers, the knot bit deeper, as if the rope wanted to remind her she was not a person anymore. Someone had put a thin cloth over her mouth, not to keep her quiet, but to keep her from praying too loud.

Ariya tried to think like she had been taught. Bad omens bring bad harvest. Bad harvest brings anger. Anger brings punishment. She had lived her whole nineteen years inside that chain.