Chapter Text
The morning light filtered through the royal curtains in the prince’s master bedroom. Marc had been awake for hours before the noise of the castle started .
The silk sheets tangled at his waist as he stared at the ceiling, the golden embroidery above him blurred in the pale haze of dawn. He hadn’t slept—not really. His mind had been too restless, thoughts looping over and over again in quiet panic and anticipation.
Today he would meet his fiancé.
Andrei.
Marc sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck, which was stiff from lying awake too long. The fireplace had long gone cold, and the air carried the early spring chill, but it wasn’t the cold that made his skin prickle. It was the weight of everything this day represented. The eyes of the court. The expectations of his father. The whispers of foreign dignitaries.
Andrei was arriving at noon.
The engagement had been arranged over a year ago—an alliance between Ardelore and Veyra, the two oldest kingdoms of the continent. It was a political match, forged in ink and ambition long before either prince had seen each other outside of portraits and coin engravings. There had been letters, formal and carefully curated, passed between them by scribes and emissaries. But letters were nothing like a voice. A voice could tremble. A smile could falter. A truth could surface in the smallest pause.
He knew next to nothing about the man he would marry.
Marc rose and walked barefoot to the tall windows overlooking the eastern courtyard. The castle below was a frenzy of preparation—servants hauling banners up stone staircases, florists arranging wreaths of violet and silver, musicians tuning lutes and harps. The flags of both kingdoms hung side by side, fluttering in harmony as if they had always been meant to.
And yet… Marc felt anything but harmonious.
When he finally dressed, he chose the navy tunic with the high collar and the braided silver trim—not the stiff ceremonial garb his father had requested. He wore no crown. No sash. Just enough to remind the court that he was still their prince—but not so much that he felt like a mannequin on display.
By midday, he was standing at the front of the palace steps, flanked by his father, King Therren, and a sea of courtiers behind him. The sky was crisp and cloudless. The scent of roses and lavender floated on the breeze.
Then came the horns—low and rolling—and the gates opened.
The carriage was midnight black, with accents of obsidian and polished steel, pulled by four snow-white stallions. It moved with a quiet elegance, not the thunderous arrival of a conqueror, but the controlled approach of someone who knew exactly what he was walking into.
Marc’s breath caught as the carriage stopped.
A footman descended first, then reached for the door.
Out stepped a boot—leather, black, immaculately polished. Then a lean figure, tall and poised. He wore a tailored coat of deep indigo over dark trousers, the Veyran crest stitched across his chest. His raven-black hair was pulled into a knot at the nape of his neck, and his face—
Marc had seen portraits. But portraits could never do justice to someone alive .
Andrei’s jaw was sharp, his eyes the color of storm clouds—gray, alert, and calculating. He looked young, but there was something old behind his expression, like he’d already survived things no prince should have had to.
Their eyes locked.
Marc felt the air leave his chest.
Andrei walked forward slowly, with the calm self-assurance of someone entering enemy territory by choice. But there was no hostility in his expression. Only curiosity. And something else—something unreadable.
Marc stepped forward and bowed his head, lower than tradition required.
“Prince Andrei,” he said, his voice steady. “Welcome to Ardelore.”
Andrei gave a small, respectful nod. His voice, when he spoke, was rich and clear. “Prince Marc. I appreciate the welcome.” His gaze flicked upward to the turrets. “Your home is beautiful. Grand. Cold.”
That earned a faint smile from Marc. “It warms eventually.”
Andrei tilted his head slightly, studying him. “Does it?”
Marc faltered—but only for a second. Then he gave a measured smile. “That depends on who’s inside.”
Andrei’s eyes didn’t leave him. “Let’s hope I’m the right kind of fire.”
There was a murmur from the crowd behind them, a cough from the king’s steward. But Marc didn’t look away.
And for the first time that morning, something inside him shifted—not with dread, but with intrigue.
King Andrei was escorted by a crew of servants to his bedroom to rest and change before the night ball that was prepared for them and that gave him a chance to take a look around the castle.
The place was grand, yes—but also precise . Controlled. Every tapestry hung at the perfect height, every vase set at an angle too correct to be human. It was beautiful in the same way a blade was beautiful: clean, sharp, impersonal.
He hated it.
He’d refused the company of the steward when he left his guest quarters. The man had stammered something about “customary escort,” but Andrei had fixed him with one look, and that had been the end of that. He wanted to see this place. Without someone telling him what to admire.
Andrei didn’t dislike the prince, not exactly. But he didn’t trust him either. That smile—too smooth. Those gestures—too practiced. The polite detachment of a man who had been trained to please, to deflect, to dance through expectations like a jester on a leash.
Andrei had spent years at war. In command. He could read people like terrain. And Marc… Marc was terrain designed to trap.
He passed through the inner courtyard, where white lilies had been planted in uniform rows, and then stopped at the ancient chapel—older than the palace itself. He lingered, studying the carved names on the crypt wall.
“All of them married for politics,” he muttered, fingers brushing over a prince's name long worn by time. “And how many were miserable?”
Meanwhile, in the king’s private solar, Marc stood with his hands clasped behind his back, tension in every line of his frame.
King Therren sat in his carved oak chair, the midday light pouring over his silver beard and weathered skin. He looked up from the correspondence he was reading, arching one brow.
“You look like you’re about to confess treason,” he said mildly.
Marc gave a tight smile. “Would that be more welcome than what I am about to say?”
The king set down his pen, sighing. “Go on.”
Marc exhaled. “I don’t think the engagement is right.”
Silence.
Not shock. Just a pause. Like a storm gathering just beyond the hills.
King Therren leaned back, folding his hands in front of him. “Speak carefully now, son.”
Marc stepped closer, not cowering—but not posturing either. Just… honest.
“I understand the importance of the alliance with Veyra. Andrei is… capable. But we’re not a match. We don’t want this.”
The king regarded him a long moment. “Marriage isn’t about want.”
“It should be,” Marc said, too quickly.
A flicker of something—disappointment, maybe—crossed the king’s face. “I married your mother for love, Marc. And it nearly destroyed the realm when her people rebelled. Don’t mistake sentiment for strength.”
Marc looked down. “This isn’t about sentiment.”
“Isn’t it?”
Marc hesitated. Martin’s face flared in his mind—his warmth, his voice, the truth of him—and he pushed the thought down like a burning coal.
“I’m not asking you to break the alliance,” he said quietly. “Only… delay it. Give us time. To see if this can work before the vows are sealed.”
King Therren rose slowly. “And what happens if it can’t? Shall we risk Veyra’s wrath because you want more time to flirt with knights and figure out your feelings?”
Marc flinched.
The king’s voice softened—not kind, but almost… tired. “You were born to carry a crown, Marc. That means putting the realm before your comfort. Before your fear.”
Marc looked up, searching his father’s face for any sign of warmth. “And what if Andrei never wants this either?”
The king paused.
Then said, “Then you’ll be perfectly matched.”