toward the Kingdom of Yakthung

The carriage wheels rumbled over the rough mountain road, each bump making Irina sway slightly where she sat. Outside, morning fog blanketed the trees in silver, muting every sound except the steady clatter of hooves. The convoy moved with quiet purpose toward the Kingdom of Yakthung—toward her political marriage.

Irina exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around the edge of her seat.

She wasn’t afraid of the marriage itself.

She was afraid of the strange dreams that had started after the engagement was announced—dreams that felt too vivid, too sharp to be mere illusions. It was like a warning for her.

She leaned her head against the window, watching fog drift past like ghostly curtains.

Her eyes grew heavy.

And the world slipped away.

—White petals floated all around her.

—Golden lanterns gleamed along a vast ceremonial hall.

—Her hands trembled inside pristine wedding gloves.

—A man stood at the end of the aisle.

His features were blurred, as though she was looking through mist, but she felt like she has known him for years the aura—calm, distant, freezing. He didn’t smile. He didn’t offer a hand. He only watched her with a coldness that made her heart crack.

Irina felt her breath hitch.

Why would my he look at me like that?

Before she could step toward him, the dream twisted sharply.

Gold collapsed into darkness.

The wedding hall vanished.

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

Someone’s footsteps echoed behind her.

She turned—

A blade flashed.

Agonizing pain burst in her chest as steel pierced straight into her heart.

Her breath crumpled into silence.

The world tilted, dark edges closing in as she felt herself fall.

She couldn’t see the attacker’s face.

Only shadow.

Only coldness.

Her blood pooled on the ground, warm against the darkness.

Am I… dying?

The shadow leaned closer—too close—

“Lady Irina!”

She jolted awake, gasping.

Her hand flew to her chest, searching for a wound that wasn’t there. Sweat dampened her forehead, her breathing ragged. The carriage had halted, and the muffled voice of the coachman came from outside.

“Are you hurt, my lady? Shall I summon healer?”

Irina forced herself to steady her breath.

“No,” she whispered, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her. “It was only a dream.”

Only a dream.

Only a vision.

But why did it feel so real?

She wiped her cold hands on her dress. These dreams were happening more frequently… and each time they felt more like warnings than fantasies. As if some unseen force was whispering:

Be careful.

This road leads to danger.

Outside, one of the knights called, “We’ll reach Yakthung by sundown, Lady Irina.”

Sundown.

By then, she would arrive at the palace.

She would meet Carlos—the man in her dream.

The man whose cold stare haunted her.

Irina took a shaky breath.

If these visions were warnings of a possible future, she would change it.

She had to.

Because whether dream or omen—

She refused to let that future come true.