I lower my head, my hands clutching at my skirts, as if they are the only thing rooting me here. "What?" I heard him clearly the first time that he spoke, but a part of me won't believe his words.

My father sighs, and rubs a hand across his tired face, as if knowing that I would react this way. "The king of Whales is in search for a bride, and you are of age. Lyra, we need to keep our good bloodlines going, and he is not a bad man to deal with. Also, they have good trade, and good money flow. They can make us a rich country again."

Of course, I've known since I was small that I would be set into an arranged marriage one day, but I cannot help but be baffled at the king's selection for my husband. I always thought that one day I would meet a handsome young prince that I was to marry, and that we would ride off into the sunset together. At least, that's what my mother told me when I was a child.

The King of Whales is well into his forties, and I've just turned eighteen a month ago. I've also heard rumors of what became of the King of Whales' five previous wives. No grown man should ask his daughter to do this, though I know it happens all the time, I never thought that I would have to be one of them. Not for that king. "But father, I-"

The king cuts me off with the slam of his palm on the polished mahogany of the dinner table. "No buts, Lyra. Our kingdom is..." He sighs. "We need help, or we are going to fall and our people will starve."

"Our people are starving. I am not sure if you have noticed. I am having trouble seeing how marrying an old man will change that." I grit out through my teeth, clenching my fists under the table. He ignores this, and cuts himself a piece of meat slowly, waiting for my answer, though I know well that he will give me no choice but to agree with him.

My mother looks up, silently pleading with me, her eyes shining with unshaped tears. She doesn't want me to fight with him, nor does she want me to do this. Her dark brown hair, the same as mine, frames her beautiful face when it falls near her sharp cheeks as she lowers her eyes, picking up her drink with shaky hands. I avoid her gaze and look down at the untouched meat on the plate in front of me. "I... No. I won't." I say firmly, looking slowly up at my father, defiance settling deep in my bones. "I refuse to marry the king of Whales."

He picks up his silver cup and takes a long drink of his wine, as if preparing himself for something. He sets it back down and looks at me, smoothing his dark, graying mustache. He glances at my mother, who had started to silently cry. She is a quiet woman, and would never speak out against my father, as they met in the same way. An arranged marriage. My father also doesn't like when his pets speak against his wish. I've always assumed that he found me to be distasteful, for that very reason. I've always been too much for him to handle. A princess should be sweet, delicate and polite. A princess should never speak without permission, or challenge the authority of a man. I've been doing all of these things since I was a child. I act more like a young prince, than the dainty princess that I am. The king has always frowned upon me for that.

"Lyra, I do not want to do this, but if you do not heed my wishes, then I will be forced to..."

My mother looks at me as my father continues, and I can see in her eyes that she knew I would rather face his punishment than be forced into the same thing just like she was, though she had been arranged to the prince at that time, she hadn't loved him. I am still not sure if she does. I suspect that my father hasn't changed since he was young, he is still stubborn, hard, and unkind. It would be a miracle to love someone like that.

"I will be forced to disown you. You will be banished from this kingdom." He says, with nearly no remorse of doing so. I raise my chin to meet his dark eyes, showing no weakness. I've never let the king see my tears, so I will certainly not start now.

I take my napkin off of my lap, set it next to my glass and push my chair back, eyes glaring into my father's. "Excuse me." I say curtly, and before he could object, I walk away from the table, my shoes clicking against the marble floor. He knows what my answer will be, despite his threats.

I decide that if I am going to be banished for denying this marriage, then I may as well leave before the king has the chance to, since I would be such a disgrace to him anyway. It might make him feel better to know that I had left already, save him the embarrassment. Perhaps he will just tell everyone that I never existed, that I was merely a figment of their imaginations. This life is too good as a princess, I won't deny it, but like I said, our people are starving, our king is one step shy of being a donkey's ass, and our kingdom is falling apart. I could do much more good elsewhere, I think.

As soon as I am out of sight, I start running, as quickly as the strangling corset around my waist will permit. I run through the corridor, through the hallways and up the marble steps, passing startled maids, servants and guards. I stopped in front of my father's room, and wait until it is deserted before opening his door. I slip inside and shut the heavy door softly behind me, the guards tipping their heads at me on my way. I've often done this, so it does not come across as terribly suspicious that I would enter the chambers of my parents.

This room is as it could be imagined, the same as any other king's chamber: loud and horribly obnoxious. There is a large four poster bed, perfectly made up with red sheets, wide windows draped over with heavy red satin curtains, with a large wardrobe pressed against the far wall. The room is filled with expensive furs and jewels that no servant would be daft enough to touch, and the hearth of the fire place is decorated with gems and gold. This, is the true reason as to why our subjects are starving in their quaint little shacks. The king is a greedy man, belly bursting with rich and decadent food, back clothed with the deep colors of purples and reds. Meanwhile, his people, whom I enjoy speaking with daily and know by name, are breaking their backs for a loaf of bread. Luckily the Queen, love her heart, had set it up before I was even born, that the families who live in our kingdom will be fed at least enough for three days, which usually lasts the poorest citizens a week. At this rate, though, I'm assuming the King has no knowledge of this. He's not known for the kindness of his heart, but I suppose that it is true, that a King is not much of a king without subjects to rule. Even the cruelest man will throw his dog scraps, lest they be no good for hunting.

I go to the wardrobe, which is as tall as two men and eight times as wide, and open the doors. I am met by hundreds of luxurious robes and shirts and rows of locked drawers of other expensive items. I rustle around until I find a loose white man’s shirt that I think may fit me better than anything else I had found. I hold it up briefly, glancing in the looking glass next to to wardrobe. It is large on my small frame, but my father is a rather fleshy man, and I prefer to spend my time out riding or socializing than being a glutton. I pull it away and fold it, then tuck it under my skirts, squeezing it beneath my corset enough so it will not drag, to conceal it until I get to my chambers. I've often come to my parent's chambers, yes, but rarely do I leave with anything. If I do, I always keep it hidden from the Guardsmen's views, as they are to report it back to my father.

I exit just as I entered, waiting until there is no one in the lonely hallway but me and the two Guards, and rush off to my bedroom, the men bowing in my wake. I am much less familiar with my father's Guards than my own, so I shoot them a tight lipped smile, and carry on.

I wait in my chambers until my mother comes to knock on my door in her gentle way, asking if I am awake. She probably wants to speak with me, and maybe I should let her, but I make no sound, signaling that I may not be wanting to. I stand outside of the inner chamber door, leaning my forehead against the rough wood. What am I to say? I'm sorry, but I refuse to be betrothed to a man who will poison me for your money? Perhaps I could say that, but before I can make a decision, her foot steps are tapping back down the hallway. Can I really leave her, without even saying goodbye? I shove the thought aside and push away, trying to find a solid, defining thought to cling to through the sea of doubt that floods my mind.