In the grand drawing room of Prince Reuben's palace, the air felt stifling as General Odin and his sons stood rooted in silence, the weight of Reuben's bold declaration hanging heavily in the air. Odin's jaw clenched; his sons exchanged sharp, bewildered glances, their hands instinctively gripping the hem of their tunics as if searching for balance.
"But my daughter has just returned to us," General Odin finally broke the silence, his voice taut and measured. "And she is still young—just turned sixteen."
Reuben's eyes widened, surprise flickering across his features. He had taken Lara's curvaceous form and confident bearing as proof of her being at least eighteen. He noted, though, that her face looked youthful, and there was the look of innocence in her eyes—a fragility he had perhaps overlooked.
Sixteen. The age echoed in his mind. According to Northem law, a woman could only marry at eighteen. His fingers tapped against his thigh as he recalibrated his approach.
