Divine Contract: Marrying My Phantom Prince

Alex forced his breathing to slow down. In through the nose, out through the mouth. His heart was racing like a spooked horse, but he couldn't let his men see that. He was their prince. If he lost his mind, they would lose their lives. He looked back at Silas. The guard was watching him with deep concern, the kind of concern a man shows when he thinks his leader is cracking. "Silas," Alex said, his voice low and steady, a stark contrast to the chaos in his head. "Look at the window again. Tell me exactly what you see." Silas obeyed. He stared at the spot where Alex saw a glowing stained-glass saint. "I see the storm, Your Highness. I see snow on the floor. I see a broken frame. Nothing has changed—except the temperature. The stones are warm now. That alone is strange enough." Alex's stomach dropped. He could feel the warmth radiating from the walls. It was physical. It was real. His men could feel it too—he saw it in the way they relaxed their shoulders, the way they stopped hugging themselves against the cold. But the visual manifestation... that was his alone. "Are you feeling unwell, my prince?" Silas asked, taking a step closer. "The cold can play tricks on the mind. We have been marching for days. The warmth is real—we all feel it—but you're seeing something the rest of us cannot." "I am not hallucinating," Alex snapped. He softened his tone immediately. "Gather the men. We make camp here for the night. The warmth will hold—I'm certain of it." "Here?" Silas glanced around at the dilapidated ruin—the ruin he still saw as broken and exposed. "The shelter is poor, but it's warmer than the open road. I'll inform the others." Alex waited until Silas walked away before he let his shoulders slump. He walked slowly toward the altar at the front of the hall. In the physical world—the world his men could see—it was a crumbling block of stone. But in his overlapping vision, it was bathed in a soft, residual golden light. He placed both hands on the altar. The stone was warm beneath his palms. He closed his eyes, letting the reality of his situation wash over him. He thought of the capital. He thought of his father, the King, sitting on his throne, surrounded by sycophants and spies. He thought of the way the King looked at him—not with love, but with suspicion. Alex was the Queen's son. The legitimate heir. And that made him a threat to the King's favorite bastard, Demarcus. This trip to the North was supposed to be a death sentence. Exile disguised as a training mission. But his father didn't know him at all. Alex had volunteered for this post. He had begged for it. He needed to get out of the capital, out from under the King's watchful eye. He needed a place where he could build an army without being noticed. The North was brutal, but it was free from spies. If my father won't give me the crown, Alex thought, a cold fury settling in his gut, I will rip it from his head myself. He opened his eyes, staring at the golden light on the altar. This phenomenon—this miracle—changed everything. It was a variable he hadn't planned for. A power he didn't understand. Was it a weapon? Or a leash? He needed answers. He turned on his heel and strode back toward the camp. "Silas," he called out, keeping his voice quiet enough that only the guard could hear. "Does the Shadow Legion know our location?" Silas nodded, his face serious. "Yes, Your Highness. A raven was dispatched six hours ago. They are monitoring the mountain passes." Good. The Shadow Legion—his secret network of spies and assassins—was his greatest asset. If this 'miracle' turned out to be an attack, he would have the resources to fight back. But first, he had to understand what had just happened. He watched his men huddle together, rationing out bits of hard cheese and stale bread. They looked pathetic. They looked defeated. But they weren't shivering as violently anymore. The warmth was holding. He couldn't afford to be passive. He couldn't just wait to see if the miracle would repeat. He had to test the boundaries of whatever force had touched him. "Quillan!" Alex barked. The group's physician, a thin man with ink-stained fingers, looked up from his medical bag. "Your Highness?" "Come here," Alex ordered. "Bring your kit. I need a full examination." Quillan scurried over, his eyes wide. "Are you injured, my prince?" "I need to know if I'm losing my mind," Alex said flatly. He held out his wrist. "Check my pulse. Check my eyes. Check for poisons, spells, or any kind of magical contamination. I saw something tonight that no one else saw. I need to know if it was real—or if my mind is breaking." Quillan hesitated, clearly confused. "Your Highness, the warmth is real. We all felt it. The stones are warm to the touch. Whatever happened... it wasn't nothing." "Then examine me and tell me why I'm the only one who saw the full extent of it." Quillan swallowed hard and pulled out a small silver tuning fork. "As you wish, Your Highness." Alex sat still as the physician began his prodding. He stared straight ahead, his mind racing. If Quillan found nothing, then the miracle was real—and he had been singled out for a reason. And if the miracle was real, then Alex had just found the most powerful ally—or enemy—in the kingdom.