The city of Solencia glittered beneath a sheath of midmorning mist.

From the balconies of the eastern wing of the royal palace, one could almost pretend it was beautiful. Gilded rooftops sparkled in fractured sunlight. Temple bells rang to gods long silenced. A hundred banners unfurled on ivory towers like petals of duty, stitched with the crests of noble houses and divine symbols barely understood by those who now wore them.

And nestled among those silks and secrets was House Lunevere’s embassy suite, where the wrong heir was being laced into a gown of seafoam green.

"Stop fidgeting," the seamstress hissed beneath her breath, pinning another gilded shell to his high collar. "If you loosen this corset again, I swear I’ll—"

"You’ll what?" the boy asked dryly. His voice was low, but not masculine—not now, not with his ribs compressed, cheek dusted in gold powder, lips painted like Liraen’s priests. “Out me to the entire court and start a war?”

That shut her up. It always did.

The boy in the dress was Eryndor Lunevere, the last son of House Lunevere—the Tideland nobles who whispered to stars and bound prophecies in pearl. He was not meant for court. He was not meant for marriage. But his sisters were too young, his brothers too dead, and his house too desperate.

A misunderstanding, the letters had claimed. A tragic clerical error.

A rival noble house had offered a marriage alliance, mistakenly assuming the eldest Lunevere child was a daughter and House Lunevere, already spiraling toward economic ruin, had accepted.

They had written letters. Signed agreements. Set dates.

They had even whispered of blessings from the Goddess Caelira—visions of peace, dreams made manifest. But dreams and survival rarely held hands in Delicana.

So they had turned to Eryndor.

His hair had been grown out, softened, perfumed. His body wrapped and sculpted to fit gowns never meant for him. His identity—his truth—sealed behind layers of charmwork and social illusion.

He had protested, of course. But the guilt had outweighed the pride. For his siblings. For the name. For a future with fewer coffins and fewer debts.

“Do not speak unless addressed directly,” his steward warned from behind a velvet curtain. “Smile modestly. Speak softly. They will want you to be quiet and compliant—be both.”

Eryndor didn’t respond. Instead, he stood as the final pin was placed and turned toward the mirror.

He looked like a ghost of a goddess. Like a bride carved from salt and sorrow. He did not look like himself, but that was the point.

Outside the embassy door, the royal guards announced the arrival of the visiting noble delegation—the one he was to be promised to. Treaties would be signed. Wealth preserved. Faces smiled. And then, in a few weeks—if the gods were kind and the lies held—he would fake his death and vanish into myth.

That was the plan. But as the gilded doors opened, and the son of the rival house stepped into the room their eyes met, and something unplanned cracked in Eryndor’s resolve—

Eryndor began to wonder if his death would be the easiest part.

"For the good of the House. For the good of the realm. For the survival of our name." He reminded himself, the gloved fingers of his hands gathering a bunch of the silken fabric of his dress.
@SilverPaw

A fortnight ago

When his uncle, Lucian, invited him into his office for brunch, Azariah didn’t think it out of the usual. The acting marquess did have a habit to nag and lecture, but more often, they’d go over their territory’s businesses, finances, and various other issues. Even if he refused to wear the façade of a lord in public, he remained the heir apparent. He had suggested to his uncle that the marquess could appoint his own son as his heir, yet the man was too traditional to do so.

Ah, well…

Azar scratched his head, and knocked on the solid mahogany door. At Lucian’s muffled invitation, he entered.

The acting marquess’s office was a neat and ordered space, even when filled with bookshelves, filing cabinets, papers, scrolls, maps, and numerous other documents. It was a contrast of light beige, warm brown, and somber gray with little in the way of décor. The exceptions were his personal collection of wine, one family portrait, and a solitary potted plant on the windowsill aunt Brighid insisted on. Aside from those, all items within the room were purely functional. His uncle was as prim and proper as always, blonde hair and beard neatly trimmed, not a hair out of place. The man was so utterly practical and dreary, Azariah to wonder if half his soul had been consumed by paperwork.

To say that Azar did not fit into his uncle’s office was an understatement. His hair was a riotous mess, his clothes were rumpled, and his boots bore streaks of dried mud. “Hello, there, uncle,” he gave a casual wave and plopped into a leather chair.

The marquess grunted, and pointed to a stack of letters awaiting him on the low table next to his chosen seat. “Take a look through those.”

Azar acquiesced with a hum. As he read through the pile, his expression darkened. He barely contained his outburst until he finished reading. “What the hell is this?” The chair screeched as he rose, turning on his uncle with fury blazing in his eyes.

Lucian finally graced him with his full attention, raising his gaze from where it’d been affixed on his own work. “Is it the act of reading which is giving you trouble, or comprehension?”

Azariah snarled. He gathered the papers, marched over to his uncle, and slammed them onto his desk, scattering the pile in the process. That earned him a frown, but fuck if he cared. “You know damn well what I mean, uncle.” His fingers itched, but he suppressed the urge to set the letters afire. “You married me off without my fucking say-so!”

Lucian raised an eyebrow. “Why are you so surprised? Arranged marriages are not uncommon amongst nobility, and you are nearing 30.”

Azar slammed his fist on the innocent desk, wishing it was his uncle’s face instead. “You could have at least asked before this was a done deal.”

“And risk having you run off?”

The younger man ground his teeth. His uncle knew him too well, damn it. “Why?”

Lucian gathered the papers, organizing them chronologically. “Oh, come now, Azariah. This will be to your benefit, as well.”

“Oh–!” He was so incredulous, words escaped him. “Do tell,” he hissed. “Because all I fucking saw in there,” his pointer finger stabbed at the re-organized stack, “were benefits for you. And what benefits you, benefits her, you goddess-forsaken bootlicker.”

“Enough!” Finally, his uncle snapped. He stood up with sudden force, holding onto the edge of his bureau with a white-knuckled grip. “I do not do this because I enjoy it!” he barked. “Do not think for a moment that I do.”

“Then why?” Azar half-demanded, half-pleaded.

“Do you still not understand, you foolish boy?” Lucian’s nostrils flared. “I thought you were cleverer than this…” With a shake of his head, he sat down again, subtle anger shining in his eyes. “I listened to you. Alliances, remember? This is the start,” he set his hand atop the letters. “We join with Lunevere – together, we will be stronger. Together, we can grow, and…one day, we may be able to win.” Those last words were a feeble hope breathed into the air, so quiet Azariah had to strain to hear them.

Unwilling to fully let go of his of his outrage, suspicion coloured his countenance. “The letters didn’t mention any of that,” he pointed out.

“Whelp,” Lucian snorted. “Of course, they didn’t. Don’t you know how often official correspondence is scanned?” He sniffed. “Our respective agents met. Our houses remain loyal to our goddesses, and neither wish to see them suppressed forever.”

“Not much to go on,” Azariah scoffed, having taken to pacing around the room. He was still too restless to stay put.

“That is where you come in,” his uncle offered. “Secure the alliance, and their full support.”

“You could have explained all of this before springing up on me a marriage with a stranger,” he shot the marquess another accusatory look.

“I believed you would come around to it.” In other words, the man hadn’t wanted to deal with his opposition or debate alternatives, Azar was sure.

The heir rolled his eyes. “Fine. But you better mean what you said, because I will turn that ‘may be’ into a certainty. With or without you.”

“Azariah–”

But the young man was already storming out of the office. The lingering irritation was like fire in his veins; he needed to clear his head in the outdoors.

Now

The gold and glitter of Solencia could not hide the rot festering beneath. It turned Azariah’s stomach, but he ignored it by focusing on the immediate.

Unfortunately, the immediate entailed being fussed over by his servants and family alike. A seamster was putting the final touches on his wedding suit on one side, a servant was powdering his freshly shaved face on the other, while aunt Brighid had taken it upon herself to inspect his hands.

“Not a speck on dirt on you!” She smacked her lips in satisfaction after she’d stared at each finger with eagle-eyed focus.

Azariah groaned. “I was forced to wear gloves until yesterday night. When and where would I have got the chance to get dirt on me?”

The marchioness clicked her tongue. “You never know with you boys.”

His tie was straightened, the rose on his chest misted with water, his overly-brushed hair wrangled into a tie, a cloak set over his shoulders. “Do I really need this?” He swished the mantle with a hand.

His sister’s laughter was as light and airy as wind-chimes. “Oh, Zay, you look very dashing today.”

“What do you mean, today?” he shot back, mock-offended. “I always look dashing.”

His sister hid a grin behind a hand, and glided over to him. “Trust in the goddesses, and all will be well.” She stood on her toes, and pecked his cheek. “I have to leave to make preparations for the ceremony. See you there.” She walked out at a sedate pace, and gave a light wave to the room at large.

“Ready, lad?” Came a bark from his grandfather. The one-eyed, eye-patch wearing man was his last remaining grandparent. Despite a missing arm making one of his sleeves hang empty, and a cane supporting his back, he was a dignified, gruff, and even intimidating man.

But Azariah knew no fear, and chose to be cheeky. “Ready to make my wife all mine?” he waggled his eyebrows, sly smirk in place.

Already one of his cousins had to restrain his grandfather from unleashing his fury on him with a cane, while another was pacifying him with whispers in his ear. “You will not! Don’t you dare dishonor a maiden with your whorish ways!” His cane clacked against the floor, but red-faced as he was, he looked rather silly, if you asked Azar.

“What do we know if she’s a maiden,” he grumbled. It would be just fine by him if she wasn’t, mind.

“Azariah,” his uncle chided. More than one set of chilling eyes set on him.

“Alright, alright, can we go now, please?”

He knew he was being a brat, but truth be told, he was nervous. Now, he would finally see his wedded-to-be for the first time. Who knew what she was like, how much she knew?

His closest family members and select servants exited their embassy suite, and were accompanied by a pair of guards as they headed to where the Lunevere resided. Azariah was the sole person dressed in white and gold. To make him stand out even more, all others wore shades of black, gray, or brown.

The door to the Lunevere embassy suit opened, and Azariah was surprised by a sight he had not expected.

Oh. He took her in, a satisfied smirk spreading across his lips. Not bad…Not bad at all. He’d told himself to expect the worst, because that way, nothing could disappoint him. But this? She was beauty personified.

He could work with this.

Azariah strolled up to the Lunevere heir, stopping an inch shy of her personal space, far enough to remain respectful, but close enough to invite companionship. “Why, hello there,” he performed a gallant bow. For the first time ever, he was glad to have learned the habits of nobility. “Where have they been hiding a treasure like you?” He murmured as he straightened up, meeting her gaze with a smile. Carefully, he disentangled the rose pinned to his chest, and held it out to her. “This will suit you more than me,” he winked. “Will you give me something green in exchange? We’d match then,” he whispered as if relaying a secret to her.

Eryndor stood by the open window, veil trailing along the marble floor like morning mist. Beyond the balcony, Solencia sparkled like a jewel too long worn. It caught the light, yes, but it was chipped at the edges. The wind that reached him from the tide was warm, but heavy. He missed the salted breath of the Pearl Isles. This place smelled like lacquered ambition.

He did not adjust his dress again. The seafoam green gown flowed like mist from shoulder to heel, embroidered in sigils of moon-thread and salt-silk, the bodice catching hints of starlight even in dim light. A veil trailed behind him like seafoam dissolving. The final touch was his own doing—a piece of lace snipped from the hem, wound now around his left wrist, a thread of calm in the tempest of ceremony.

He had insisted on no fussing, though the chambermaids still hovered like bees, plucking stray strands and offering powders he declined with a glance.

Then, the knock and the voices came. All of a sudden the calm he felt, the days of self-built confidence that he could successfully pull off this fraud went out the window.

Could he truly go through with this? Could he truly smile and lie his way through a sham of a marriage?

“When flame meets tide…” An old verse came unbidden. He exhaled through his nose, then turned from the window. Before he could spiral any further, Azariah entered his view. This was going to be harder than I thought.

Eryndor schooled his expression instantly. No flicker of surprise, no stutter in his posture, but something in him went still. Golden and laughing, Azariah moved like someone who had never learned the weight of silence.

That irritated Eryndor more than it should have. Perhaps because…he envied it.

Eryndor did not move until the other was close, watched him with all the cocky grace of someone raised on compliments and coin. His bow was elaborate, but not mocking. His words treasure like you dripped with charm, and yet....

It wasn’t false. That was the problem.

Eryndor could tell when someone was performing. It was one of his survival skills.

But Azariah was genuine, in a reckless, heat-bloom sort of way. It threw him completely off balance.

Still, he didn’t smile. Not outwardly. He tilted his head, pale eyes studying the rose as it was offered to him like a token. Red and flushed, full of scent and summer. Entirely the opposite of Eryn.

He took it, fingers brushing Azariah’s for the briefest moment. Delibrate or accidental, he didn’t know.

He turned the rose in his hand, slow and thoughtful. “Red does not suit me,” he said, soft. “But I’ll wear it anyway, if only to match you.”

That, at least, earned him some ground back. Something about turning Azariah’s own play back on him gave Eryndor the illusion of control.

But then came the question “Will you give me something green in exchange?" and Eryndor hesitated.

A thousand rules of Lunevere restraint pushed against him.

"You don’t offer pieces of yourself. You don’t yield. You don’t give symbols to men with heat in their eyes."

But something about the way Azariah said it—playful, yes, but almost…honest. He tugged at the lace around his wrist.

He reached up, carefully unwinding the scrap of green. It was cool against his skin. Moon-silver thread shimmered through the fabric.

He didn’t look at Azariah as he held it out. Not at first. “For the record…” He looked up then, voice lower. There was a flicker of something in his expression, guarded but real. “…this shade isn’t for just anyone.”

The lace slipped between Azariah’s fingers. Soft, gossamer, personal. It was a trade, but not a fair one. Eryn stepped back before he could second-guess himself. Arms folded, gaze composed, tone neutral.

The room emptied slowly, like tide retreating after a storm.

Eryndor's attendants had given them this moment under the guise of “final preparations.” In truth, most knew what it was: the only privacy they would be afforded before the rites bound them together. A final chance to speak as strangers.

Eryndor stood still, hands lightly clasped at his front, the rose Azariah had given him rested in his palm now.

"..It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, my lord," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, as though the room were still crowded with attendants. The silence that followed felt too recent, too hollow like a stage after the curtain has dropped, but the actors haven’t yet left the wings. "A strange way to meet, perhaps—but such is the world we live in, is it not?"

He dared a glance up, just long enough to catch the other man’s expression, then dropped his gaze again. "I confess, I had imagined something... different. Brighter rooms. Fuller greetings. But I suppose those belong to another time." His hands were folded neatly in front of him, the only sign of tension the slight tremor in his left thumb. Still, he stood his ground. He had waited too long for this moment to squander it with doubt.

On the sidelines, Nymere and Lunevere servants and family members exchanged proofs of identity for their houses’ respective heirs. Certificates of birth, portraits from childhood, inked copies of the family tree, things like that. It was all background noise to Azariah, focused as he was on Eryn. The lady was as still and silent as the night sea at rest. It was difficult to discern what she might think, or feel. But then – she took the rose.

Her fingers happened to brush against his, which he registered mainly by how cool her hands were. The touch surprised him, but not as much as the lady’s voice: it was soft, yes, but lower than he’d expected. Almost husky. It made him wonder what she’d sound like in a different setting. Before his mind could wander off, the mental image of his grand-father beat him back intro propriety.

Though the lady Lunevere did not appear particularly impressed, she was cooperating. If only to match you. A pleased huff escaped him, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. “That’s great,” he chuckled, perfectly happy with her compromise. His chin tilted down as he observed the rose in her hands. “Red suits you better than you think…” his voice lowered, tone a touch more contemplative. If her situation was anything like his, then she was marrying him for her own reasons. Her willingness to work with him was important. If it meant they could support each other in the future, then this would be worth it after all. When his amber gaze met hers again, his smile was gentler but no less true.

He perked up right away when the self-fashioned lace wristband was offered to him. He accepted it with a giddy laugh, amber eyes sparkling. Azariah was tempted to do so many things – crow at his prize, wave it into the air like a victory flag, kiss the fabric and direct a smoldering look at her – but something about Eryn’s demeanour restrained him. She was so attentive with the gift, so cautious and reserved, he reconsidered. Instead, he settled for pinning the fine green ribbon to his chest, where the rose used to be, and fashioned it into a bow. He did so with undeniable swagger. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not just anyone, isn’t it?” His grin was full, brash, and bright.

Azariah fiddled with his new decoration before smoothing it one final time. “Thank you,” he said honestly. He recognized she had not parted with it easily. He didn’t know what it meant to her, but he could respect it. The extras (well, his family was there too, but they really didn’t need to be right now) finally took the hint, and gave them some time alone.

“Pleasure,” he drawled, but he couldn’t help wrinkling his nose at the appellation lord. “Just…It’s Azariah.” Automatically, he extended his hand for a handshake, only to realize mid-motion it might not be considered appropriate. “Oh, whoops,” he retracted it with a sheepish huff. “That’s of those ‘habits picked up from a tavern’, or at least my uncle calls it that,” he rolled his eyes. The marquis didn’t know a thing – pub patrons didn’t get acquainted with handshakes, but by sharing drinks.

He nodded at her following words. “Strange’s one word for it,” his smile turned wry. Azariah leaned against one of the ornate cabinets, trying to figure out whether Eryn meant she didn’t like how the world was right now either. “Yeah, me too. Wasn’t expecting to get married in the first place, but here we are,” he chuffed, amused. “You know…those things don’t have to belong to another time,” he told her casually. He paused, wondering if she’d take it as the hint he’d meant it. Then, he grinned, and strolled closer, gesturing widely as he spoke on. “We could have a party of our own later. Music, banners, colour, and light – with more cheer than this place’s ever seen. If you’d ever like to.” They were words meant to allay concerns of any would-be eavesdroppers – a spy could take his allusion of different times the wrong (or right) way – but it was a genuine offer.

“But uh…” he scratched at his head, mussing his neatly combed hair a bit. “If you’re second guessing all this, it’s the last chance to back out. I’m sure you know, but I figured I should say it.” He watched her for a moment. “I know I’ve decided to go for it. So, if it’s the same for you…” he shrugged, his voice light but comforting. “Might as well go on, eh?” He motioned to the door. To the rest of the world waiting for them. Azariah was alright with letting the world wait, though, if it meant giving Eryn the chance to choose.

Eryndor took the rose in his hands and placed it just behind his left ear, adjusting it within the tendrils of his blonde hair so that it wouldn't fall between this room and the ceremonial one. The rose sat nestled behind his ear, a vivid crimson flare against the twilight silk of his veil. Eryndor hadn’t intended to keep it. It was ostentatious, overly bold, nothing like the quiet elegance House Lunevere prized, but when his fingers brushed the velvet-soft petals, something in him faltered.

It was warm. Real. A mark left by someone who saw him not as duty incarnate, but as a person.

He adjusted the bloom delicately, almost reverently, before folding his hands neatly in his lap. Azariah’s voice filled the space again, and Eryn listened—not just to his words, but to their edges. The offer of celebration, of defiance, couched in charm. The wistful, almost reckless hint of something freer.

A party of their own. A life not dictated by bloodlines. A joke, but not.

His eyes narrowed faintly at the mention of another time, another way. A subtle reaction, barely more than a breath. But inside, it caught. A thread pulled taut. So he chafes against it too. Even golden sons can feel the noose.

When Azariah stepped closer and extended a hand, Eryndor didn’t move at first. The awkwardness that followed drew a quiet flicker of amusement across his lips, brief and vanishing. But something in him softened, too. Azariah’s offer to turn away—his question—was more than just nerves. It was rare. Kind, almost.

And kindness was dangerous.

Eryndor stood without flourish. Silks shifted like seafoam, pooling at his ankles. He didn’t speak right away. Instead, he reached out and took Azariah’s arm gently, deliberately. A deliberate breaking of distance, observed by a dozen waiting eyes beyond the door.

His fingers barely grazed the inner crook of Azariah’s elbow, but the contact was there. His gaze flicked downward, where skin met sleeve. Then back up. Into those gold-amber eyes that burned too brightly for this dim, political hall. “Let us go, then,” Eryndor said, his voice as soft as tide over stone. “It isn’t every day you get married in such grand fashion.”

Something like a smile lifted the corner of his lips—quiet, ironic, and maybe… real. He tilted his head, ever so slightly, toward the high vaulted doors awaiting them. “May Her light shine upon us,” he murmured, invoking Anais by rite, by blood, by expectation. But in the hush that followed, his voice dropped an octave, just enough for Azariah to hear something meant only for him: “And may we not lose ourselves in the shadows.”

And with that, Eryndor stepped forward. But beneath the finery, the lace, the prayer-slicked vows soon to be spoken—his heart was not still. It was learning how to burn.

---

The doors parted with the groan of old magic.

The moment they stepped through the threshold, the sounds of courtly chatter vanished. Silence fell like a divine command. Every head turned to watch the heirs of flame and tide take their place beneath the eye of the goddesses.

The chapel was neither Lunevere nor Nymere—but it borrowed from both.

On one side, the tiled mosaics of the Pearl Isles shimmered like moonlight on water, carved with sea serpents and celestial constellations. And on the other, pillars of red stone, inlaid with fire opals, glowed softly from within—like a hearth burning behind glass. At the center: an altar of white crystal and obsidian, where three divine statues stood in solemn attendance.

Solvya, cloaked in gold and flame, her open palm a pyre of sacred union.
Myrien, serene and pale, pen in hand, eyes cast downward as if already recording the vows not yet spoken.
Liraen, draped in flowering silks, with arms open—welcoming, yearning, ever-hopeful.

The air held incense from both regions—saltwater jasmine and sun-charred myrrh. Together, they smelled like something ancient. Something holy. Their steps echoed in tandem down the crystal aisle. Between them, a single binding thread of gold light hovered in the air, trailing from Eryn’s left wrist to Azariah’s right—a spellweave cast by officiants as they entered, a literal tie that would not fade until the rites were complete.

Eryndor kept his gaze forward. But he was aware of everything. The rhythm of their steps. The light pressure of Azariah’s arm against his own. The sound of whispers—genteel and hushed, but present. He will never know what I gave up to be here, he thought. And I will never know what he’s hiding beneath that grin.

The stares did not go unnoticed by Eryndor—they couldn’t be. He would’ve had to be a fool not to feel them: weighted, judgmental, pressing down as he and Azariah stepped down the aisle toward the Three Goddesses. Still, he let them roll off his back, fingers tightening slightly around Azariah’s arm. Whether the gesture was meant to reassure his betrothed or himself, he wasn’t sure.

He cast a brief glance toward Azariah’s face, noting the carefully arranged calm. Something in Eryndor stirred—an itch at the back of his mind. What was Azariah afraid of?

In the weeks leading to their engagement and now the ceremony, Eryndor had heard little of the man beside him. Only that he was promised to secure a marriage alliance, binding House Lunevere to a stronger house. Their coffers, gathering cobwebs by the season, would soon be full again. The lands between them would prosper. Delicana would benefit.

Whether it was true or not, Eryndor didn’t ask. He had learned early that questioning his father’s decisions was fruitless. Serath Lunevere didn’t listen—to advice, to insight, or to the divine.

As they reached the altar, Eryndor bowed low before the goddesses, eyes shut in reverence. He rose slowly, exhaling. This was it. The moment he would be forever bound to another. A stranger. One who would take him whole without knowing a thing about him.

There was something bittersweet in that.

At the priest’s command, the offerings were brought forward. Serath stood, face tight, lips tighter. In his hands he carried a box of obsidian, etched in silver runes and the Lunevere crest. Within lay a pen wrought from silvered ashwood, inlaid with veins of moonstone. Its shaft bore the family sigil—an argent crescent cradled by twin wings—and the grip was wrapped in indigo silk. The nib, forged from starliron, shimmered even in shadow, eternally cold and impossibly fine. Alongside it sat a vial of moonlight-blessed ink: a silvery fluid, sealed in crystal. This pen—one of three—was used by the royal family in divinations during times of hardship.

Serath gave no look to his son. No nod, no moment of shared recognition. He simply inclined his head toward Azariah and the priest, then returned to his seat. Eryndor noticed, but it didn’t shake him. He and his father had stopped seeing each other long ago.

Then—unexpectedly—a flicker of memory surfaced in the mirror bowl, a vision, but not his own. His brow furrowed as the image formed, sharp and bright. His eyes flicked back and forth between the defining moment between the boy then and the grown man that stood beside him today. A great sacrifice, indeed. Eryn knew that Azariah lost something that day, something they both knew he could never get back, but that was in the past. He had no place in judgement, though. He, too, had a deep sacrifice that sure enough would show in the bowl as the ritual blade pricked into his thumb.

Moonlight pierced the veil of trees, casting shadows on blood-stained snow. Silver mist curled over the forest floor like breath on glass. Eryndor knelt at the edge of the clearing, his cloak torn, long blond hair unbound. One hand pressed to the earth as if in apology. Before him, a ring of runestones glowed softly. Behind him, three figures lay still—crimson soaking into white. His silver eyes, once proud, shimmered. But no tears fell. A white petal drifted from the sky and landed in his outstretched palm.

His fingers twitched in Azariah’s grasp. The room had fallen silent. Some saw the vision; others only felt it—a chill down their spine, a sudden ache behind the ribs. But Azariah...Azariah saw it all.

Eryndor turned to him at last. His eyes were rimmed, not with grief, but with something close to release. That wound had never been seen in the light before. And now it had, under the goddesses' gaze and before the man chosen to witness it.

The vision faded, like breath on a mirror. The bowl stilled and the ritual moved on.

But something within Eryndor shifted. No longer merely a vessel for prophecy, he allowed himself to be seen. Truly seen.

It showed in the swirling water—colors of their houses twining together like smoke. Something tugged at the corner of his mouth, a near-smile, but it vanished just as quickly. A note of deep red flickered through the reflection. Eryndor frowned, but let it pass. This was not the time for questions.

He lifted the bowl, drank the water. The metallic tang struck him, but he accepted it. He let it move through him like a cleansing tide. He was no longer a man—or a woman for the sake of the ceremony— nor the heir of a fading house. They were now one. Whole, bound, and witnessed.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet but steady, like the ocean at night. It did not rise it did not need to.

"Azariah Nymere will bring me challenge, and change I do not yet understand. But I believe—I believe peace can exist in firelight. And I will meet him there."

There was no smile, but there was something deeper. A dangerous hope.

Between them, the golden thread pulsed. Then slowly began to wrap around their joined hands, palm to palm. The vow had been made, and the Goddesses heard. The golden thread settled against their skin, soft as silk but impossibly strong. Eryndor could feel it—not just the physical binding, but the deeper weave underneath.

A hush lingered after his words, heavier than silence. The priest spoke again, but the sound barely reached him. Eryndor’s attention had turned inward, drawn into the quiet space left behind now that the vow was done. Something in him felt..unmoored. Lighter, maybe, or hollow. He let out a slow breath, as though only now allowed to exhale.

His hand was still in Azariah’s. It was warm and ground, but unfamiliar. That realization stung a little more than he expected.

He glanced sidelong, not to steal a look, but to search for something. An anchor? A sign, maybe? They knew nothing of each other, not really. And yet here they stood, wrists bound, souls tethered. The goddesses would call it destiny. His father would call it victory. Eryndor... wasn’t sure what to call it yet.

Behind his calm, thoughts stirred like leaves in wind. Would Azariah expect affection? Submission? Obedience? Would he be cruel? Or kind in the way that made you question the cost?

The weight of his blood sacrifice still lingered beneath his skin, the vision curling at the edges of his mind. The snow. The stillness. The silence after loss. He had given the goddesses everything once before. He did not know if he had anything left to offer. A tremor passed through him—just a breath of doubt—but it was enough to earn him a glance from the nearest priestess. Her eyes narrowed, not with suspicion, but with recognition.

He straightened his shoulders slightly, drawing in the ritual air. Moonlight and ash, dust and salt, the scent of the divine. He had been trained for this. Groomed. Sculpted into something palatable. But standing here now, hand in hand with Azariah, the thread binding them still warm with magic, Eryndor realized he was not the thing they had made him to be.

He was something else. He just didn’t know what yet.

And that, oddly, was a comfort.

He had not expected the ritual to feel like a true binding, but the heat of Azariah’s spark lingered still. Not on his hand, but deep in the bones of his wrist, where the ribbon lay knotted. Its warmth was subtle, but insistent like a presence unwilling to be ignored. Eryn did not glance at the joined flames, he did not need to. He felt it.

The moment they became one.

It was like a sigh loosed from the gods themselves.

And yet the moment he would remember most wasn’t one of fire or vows. It was Azariah slipping his hand into his. Unannounced, unasked. I will meet him there, Eryn had said. Azariah had heard it and chose to answer.

The heat from the rising steam made Eryn flinch. He had spent most of his life in the colder reaches of the Pearl Isles, where mist clung to stone and silence carried on icy winds. He had always preferred frost to fire. But now, he supposed, this was a fitting introduction to the life he was about to enter, one warmed not by solitude but by another's presence.

Had it not been for the desperate need to unify the houses, to support his father and the legacy of their line, Eryn would have chosen a different path. A quieter one. He had shaped his entire life around his role as a speaker of prophecy. And now?

The priestess of Solvya, strikingly similar to Azariah, Eryn noted. Were they related?

She stood between them, her eyes drifting between the two men. Azariah, composed as ever, spoke his half of the vows with steady clarity. Eryn let the moment stretch, holding onto silence while he could still claim it. What role did he have now, if not the one he was born to fill?

When his turn came, the words came easily. They had been etched into his memory, like a prayer spoken too often to forget. He repeated Azariah’s vow without falter, though a part of him still watched from the outside.

The priestess offered him the match. Eryn struck it once, letting the flame catch, then turned toward the braided Lunevere candle. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Azariah conjure his own flame, small and bright, with a flick of his fingers. Eryn quirked a brow. Of course. He hid a quiet smile as he touched the wick, lighting his half in time with his soon-to-be husband.

Husband.

The word sat strangely in his mouth, as if it belonged to someone else.

The two flames met in the braided center, twining upward into a single tongue of light. Eryn watched it burn with a curious reverence. Somewhere deep within, he was relieved it hadn’t gone out. Some whispered that a snuffed candle was a sign—an omen that a union would be watched by restless spirits.

They turned together to walk the aisle once more. This time, his steps felt lighter.

He had done what was asked of him. Fulfilled his part.

A glance toward the gathering drew his eye to his father. Serath stood near the back, eyes turned skyward, his face drawn tight with tension. Others did the same—waiting, hoping, dreading.

Then, sunlight struck through the high skylight above them. Warmth bathed Eryn’s face like a mother’s touch, gentle and sure. He let out a slow breath and a single tear broke free, tracing his cheek.

Even without a formal blessing, even without knowing what came next, this feeling, this moment was enough.

And then the murmurs began. Whispers stirred in the back of the hall, voices pointing, questioning. Those nearest the great doors turned to look beyond them. Through the arched windows, the sea shifted. The waves recoiled all at once, sweeping far from the shoreline like a great inhalation, only to roll gently back in. A calm tide, some said. But others, watching the rhythm, felt something more.

Perhaps it was Liraren’s blessing after all.

A few nobles shifted in their seats, guards adjusting their postures, servants beginning to prepare for the couple’s departure. Just as the murmurs rose to speaking volume, the crowd was immediately hushed.

It wasn't commanded. It wasn't asked for. It simply happened. She stepped through the marble arch like a shadow cast in daylight—tall, austere, and arrestingly composed. Kizoh, Royal Advisor to Princess Lilith, moved as if time bent slightly to accommodate her.

Her gown was a sculpted masterpiece in shades of onyx and smoked garnet—structured shoulders giving way to a tapered bodice that wrapped around her like lacquered armor. The matte fabric glinted subtly at the seams with burnished crimson threading—subtle, but unmistakable under the torchlight. Every line, every fold, was deliberate, as though she'd been stitched into it by hands long dead and dreaming of conquest. Her hair, pure silver, flowed in sleek, gravity-defiant layers that gathered attention to her crimson eyes that seemed to pin the newly wedded couple in place.

When she smiled, it was all cheekbones and diplomacy. Her lips, painted in a shade too dark for court but somehow made allowable on her, curled with a kind of affection that made the air colder, not warmer.

Eryndor felt it before he understood it. The twist in Azariah’s hand, the way his posture coiled just slightly tighter. That must be Ishaan.

Kizoh stopped a measured distance from the couple. Not close enough to crowd, just close enough to command.

“How radiant,” she murmured. “Salt and flame woven by goddesses, bound in law, presented in court. A perfect match, don’t you agree?” Her tone was honeyed, soft, but too clean to be kind.

“On behalf of Her Highness, Princess Lilith, heir to the Solencian throne and guardian of the Accord, I offer the Crown’s formal blessing.” She paused then dipped her head, a perfectly regal angle, though her eyes never left theirs. “May your union serve the realm.” When she looked upon Eryndor and Azariah, it was not as one addresses people. It was how one assesses tools. Weapons or chess pieces, each with their own consequence if moved correctly.

The silence that followed was not just quiet—it was suspended. The entire court waited to see whether she would continue. She did.

Turning slightly, Kizoh’s gaze slid across Eryndor like a silver needle through fabric. “A moonborn in chains of gold. How the tides must whisper about you.” Her voice was thoughtful, almost affectionate. “Tell me, Heir of Lunevere... when the sea calls, will you still answer with obedience, or prophecy?” A flick of her crimson eyes, now to Azariah. “And the Heir of Nymere. Fire, so recently reined. How obedient you've become.” Her smile returned. “Does the brand still burn, I wonder? Or has it cooled now that you've found a prettier cage?”

Eryn’s hand tightened ever so slightly on Azariah’s, but he didn’t dare speak because then she lifted two pale fingers and Ishaan stepped forward. He bowed, crisp, mechanical. “For the Crown,” he intoned.

Kizoh turned back to the couple one last time. “May your loyalties be long-lived,” she said, almost gently. “And your secrets few.” Then, with the rustle of her scarlet-threaded hem and the silence of knives being drawn, she was gone.

---

The carriage ride was a blur of whispers, of glinting glass and ceremony-slicked silence. Every step taken afterward felt too watched, too heavy with expectation. The blessing had passed. The gods had spoken.

But that... that man...

Eryndor’s spine had stiffened the moment he saw Ishaan.

Not from recognition—Eryn had never met the former marquis in person—but from something worse. An absence. A void so complete it seemed to warp the air around it. The kind of silence that Luneveres recognized instantly: not the stillness of peace, but the hush before a knife was drawn.

He'd felt Azariah’s fingers tighten around his, and this time, Eryn hadn't hidden his response. His own hand returned the pressure, not fierce, not desperate, but resolute. Now, seated beside him in the dim confines of the Nymere carriage, with the firelit chapel behind them and the future looming ahead, Eryndor finally exhaled. “He’s been graced.”

That was what they called it when Kizoh marked someone as hers.

It wasn’t a blessing. It wasn’t even a curse, not in the traditional sense. To be Graced was to be rewritten. Not overtly, not at first. Those who were Graced smiled more than they should. They answered before questions were asked. They remembered everything and nothing at once. Their words were polished, palatable, and hollow.

Some said it began with a ritual: no blood, no magic circle, just a quiet moment when Kizoh looked at you too long, and something inside you shifted. Others believed it was the crimson thread in her garments that did it, woven by Delicanian priests in secret towers where sound could not reach.

The symptoms varied. Some forgot their family names. Others lost the ability to lie. A few became brilliant speakers for the Crown—eloquent, untiring, and completely unbothered by contradiction. All of them, however, shared one thing:

They no longer looked at the world the way they used to. They looked through it. As though they'd glimpsed something beyond the veil—and had chosen to obey it.

Ishaan was the worst kind. The kind who still looked like he might be saved, but Eryndor knew better. He knew that look. It wasn’t loyalty. It was vacancy.

When Azariah helped him into the carriage, Eryndor had expected to withdraw his hand. The ritual was done and the appearances upheld, but their fingers were still linked, resting between them now like something uncertain. Something not-yet-defined.

Azariah had asked if anyone had come with him.

Eryn looked down at their joined hands. Eryndor hadn’t meant to hold on for so long. It had begun as a gesture of ceremony, steadying himself as he stepped into the carriage, but now, minutes later, neither of them had let go. The weight of it had changed. It no longer felt like obligation, or even kindness. It simply was. Eryndor shifted, not pulling away, but adjusting so their knees touched faintly.

“No,” He hesitated, then continued with a wry, delicate edge. “they thought I wouldn’t need anyone. That I would adjust.”

That was Lunevere pragmatism: sacrifice what could be borne, lose what was already lost.

He looked up at Azariah fully now, his gaze no longer unreadable. There was gratitude in it. “But I’ll manage,” he added, gently with a hint of a smile. “You offered a party once. I think may take you up on it.” Their hands were still joined. Eryndor’s gaze dropped to them again, half-expecting the illusion to vanish. But Azariah’s grip was gentle, thumb grazing once across the back of his hand before going still again.

"You're..not quite what I expected." He confessed, returning the graze of his thumb against Azariah's. "Though, this is much better than what I imagined."

Eryn let his head rest gently against the padded wall as Azariah spoke. The jostle of the road made their shoulders occasionally bump, but it was not unwelcome. His warmth bled quietly through layers of silk and lace.

The time for pretending was over, but how far could Eryn allow this facade to continue?

His gaze, half-lidded with fatigue, turned to Azariah when he spoke of his father. The pain in his voice wasn’t loud—it was barely a whisper in the shape of words. But Eryn knew the shape of grief worn like armor. The grief you weren't allowed to show. His fingers tightened faintly around his husband’s, their clasped hands still resting between them.

“I know,” he said at last, quiet. His hand remained laced with Azariah’s, fingers brushing the faintest, thoughtful rhythm across his knuckles. “He will be free, however it must happen, I will be there to support you.” There was no judgment in his tone, only a certain stillness, the kind that came from someone who had already wrestled with his own ghosts and come out hollowed but resolute. Eryn had long since stopped believing in clean victories.

When the other shifted the conversation to something lighter, he allowed the change. Not because he needed the reprieve—though perhaps hhe did—but because Azariah did. He turned his face toward the window for a moment, letting the image of a seaside celebration take shape in his mind.

“The sea sounds nice,” Eryndor murmured, the edge of a smile playing at his lips.

He paused, then added, “If it were up to my family, I’d be wedded in silence and sent off like a well-packaged export. So..no, I wouldn’t expect many Luneveres to show. But I wouldn’t mind one or two friendly faces, if they exist.” His voice was light, but the flicker of bitterness was undeniable.

When he bumped his shoulder, Eryndor looked back at him—amused, a little wary. “Loud and vibrant, hm? That sounds like my personal version of hell.” His grin deepened. “But I admit, I’m curious. I’d like to see what makes a Nymere celebration different. Just..don’t expect me to sing. Or dance. Or speak to more than five people at a time.” He nudged him back gently.

At his husband’s teasing, his expression turned indulgent. A rare softness settled over his features as their fingers intertwined again, the simple motion sending a warmth he didn’t care to name fluttering low in his chest. He didn’t pull away.

When he leaned in, whispering, his breath caught for just a second, not out of fear or surprise, but awareness. A flicker of something not quite spoken. His smile curved slowly, lips pressed together as if weighing whether or not to indulge him. “You?” Eryndor echoed. “I imagined you..older, wrinklier.” An awkward laugh shook his shoulders while a pink dusted his cheeks. "Not all free-spirited and charismatic."

Eryn looked at him then, gaze lingering longer than before, searching. “But I do like the real thing, much better. It takes a weight off my chest knowing I won't have to worry about my husband dying of old age much sooner than intended.” He pursed his lips for a moment, hesitant on whether or not he should choose his next words carefully. "And of me? Did I meet your expectations?"

Eryndor’s lips drew into a tight line at the mention of being the Luneveres’ viscountess. Yes, he was, but Eryn? The woman he was pretending to be? That was another story entirely.

“I was,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “But I’m part of the Nymere family now.” He shrugged, offering a polite smile. “One of my siblings will take over soon enough. If one of us goes, there’s always another to fill the gap. My father made sure of that.”

Lord Serath had always been meticulous about his legacy. When one of Eryndor’s brothers was lost—tragically and suddenly—his father wasted no time. A new wife. A new heir. Another attempt to secure the line. To his growing frustration, the last three offspring were daughters, far too young and, by Serath’s measure, not yet fit for marriage. That left Eryndor, the last viable male heir. It fell to him, and him alone, to pull off this deception and to survive it long enough to return to the Pearl Isles and restore balance to his family’s ambitions.

Azariah’s gentle nudge pulled him from the downward spiral of thought, and Eryndor responded with a small, playful tap against his husband’s arm. When the conversation drew softer, quieter, guilt coiled low in his stomach.

Still, he leaned into Azariah, curling gently against his side, head bowed to watch the delicate link of their hands. He forced his breath to steady, forced himself to be present, to play the part. A yawn escaped him, unbidden, though not entirely feigned; the weight of the day was catching up fast. “I think..rest sounds like an amazing idea. Will you join me?” he asked, voice hushed with the kind of vulnerability he knew Azariah would respond to.

Raising his free hand to rub his eye, he immediately regretted it. He caught the dark streak against the pristine white of his glove. Damn it. He quietly cursed beneath his breath. How bad did it look? Maybe only the powder had shifted, but if the kohl had run or smudged further.. “My ladymaids would have my head for ruining a perfectly good glove with my bad habits.” He snorted, wiggling his fingers free from Azariah’s grasp just long enough to peel off the gloves one by one.

Underneath, the skin on the inside of his wrists were inked in a pale lilac color, the markings subtle against his fair complexion were nearly invisible unless one was looking for them.

Eryn rolled his wrists and splayed his fingers in a stretch, huffing softly. He was used to wearing gloves, yes, but women's gloves? That was another ordeal entirely. The silk was tighter, stiffer, and wholly unforgiving. How did noblewomen wear them for such long periods of time without complaint?

He flexed his hands once more, grateful for the moment of relief, before glancing back toward Azariah and returning his now ungloved hand into Azariah's.

He had prepared for a husband who would leer, or gloat, or seek to prove something behind closed doors. Instead, Azariah had offered him a cloak folded with care and words tempered with consideration. It threw him off-balance, as did the roguish smile and the unspoken permission to rest. How many times had he been told to harden himself, to expect cruelty and manipulation in courtship especially in political marriage that he knew would be shortly lived?

Yet here he was, presented with something bordering on..kindness.

He accepted the cloak silently, folding it beneath his head as he shifted to lean into Azariah’s side. With his gloves tucked away, he let his hands fall idle in his lap, but it was Azariah’s fingertips, gentle and curious against his own, that made his breath catch. He hadn’t expected to be touched like that—slow, reverent, like he was something worth unraveling. It was a dangerous kind of attention, the kind that threatened to see too much. That threatened to make him want more.

A part of him panicked. The soft pad of Azariah’s thumb against his knuckles made him feel exposed. Vulnerable. And yet he didn’t pull away. Azariah must’ve sensed something shift. He pulled back with an easy smile, apologetic and teasing all at once. Eryndor let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, trying to mask it as a sigh of tiredness.

He didn’t speak, only gave a small nod as he allowed his body to soften further into the bench seat. He rested his head lightly where the cloak had been placed, letting the warmth of Azariah beside him settle like a protective weight. There was no spell to keep him safe here. No blade hidden under his skirts(though that was a good idea for later if he was separated from his husband for longer than necessary). Just trust and a tenuous, frightening bond he hadn’t asked for.

Still, he let sleep take him.

He dreamt of his siblings. Not the ones who lived, but the ones who didn’t. The brother whose name was no longer spoken. The sister born too early, too fragile for the world. He dreamt of the sea, of black stones beneath his feet and a tide that dragged him forward, forward, until—

A hand on his shoulder stirred him. His lashes fluttered open slowly. Eryn. Her name again. How many times could someone say it before he remembered to answer to it?

The carriage had stopped. He could feel the shift of the wheel beneath them, the breeze curling through the window and brushing over his exposed forearms. Eryndor nodded, sleep still clinging to his limbs. He pushed himself upright, brushing hair from his cheek and quickly glancing down to make sure the kohl hadn’t smeared, again.

His voice came soft, unguarded. “Thank you for the cloak.” He met Azariah's eyes for a moment, the corner of his eyes crinkling with a soft smile. He let his hand linger a moment longer before slipping away to step outside.

The air outside the carriage was mild, laced with a grassy scent from the nearby field, the sun a gentle weight against his shoulders. Eryndor stepped out with practiced grace, skirts gathered lightly in one hand, the other resting along the edge of the doorframe. The shift in temperature was a small relief after the closeness of the carriage. Still, he lingered near it rather than stepping too far.

He left his gloves behind, deliberately forgotten on the bench where he’d sat. It wasn’t a statement, exactly, more a quiet rebellion. The fabric had started to feel suffocating, not just in texture but in what it represented. Eryndor had worn gloves every day since his arrival in Delicana, had allowed them to become part of the illusion. But perhaps, if Azariah was going to touch his hands like that.. perhaps it didn’t matter so much if they were seen.

He stood still by the carriage steps, hands folded gently in front of him, posture straight, calm. A painted lady waiting for her cue. He had no desire to wander or make conversation with the small number of retainers who’d already begun to unpack food and supplies from a secondary cart. Let the others do as they pleased. He waited.

Waited for him.

Eryndor wouldn’t admit how often his gaze flicked toward the carriage door, how carefully he listened for footsteps. It was ridiculous. They had barely spent a full day as husband and wife. This—whatever this was—was likely temporary. It had to be.

Still, something warm coiled in his chest when he finally caught sight of him.

But it was not Azariah who drew his focus next, it was the woman standing nearby, conversing with a servant in relaxed tones, her hands moving animatedly as she spoke.

And her face, that was what drew his attention. Strong brow, clever eyes, the same dark lashes and bone structure as her brother. It clicked into place before Eryndor was even aware he was speaking. “Is she your sister?” he asked, the words quiet as a breeze, his head tilted toward the young woman. He glanced sidelong at Azariah, noting again the shared lines of their jaw, the familiar way they moved both proud and self-assured, though the sister carried it with a softer kind of dignity.

“She performed Solvya’s Oath during our wedding,” Eryndor added, turning his eyes back toward Orianne now that the memory had settled fully into place. “I thought she looked familiar. Though I suppose I was..distracted.” He didn’t say nervous, or terrified, or reeling. But that had been the truth of it. The ceremony had been beautiful, yes, but also binding. Sacred. A ritual that changed everything.

He wet his lips and folded his arms, slender fingers curling lightly around his elbows. “She looked steady, then. And kind. You must be proud.” The last part wasn’t performative. It was quiet and sincere. The sort of thing one might say to keep the conversation polite, but Eryn meant it, and that surprised him too.

He didn’t ask if Azariah had other siblings. He didn’t press, but a part of him, that same flickering ember that dared to feel safe in a borrowed cloak, burned softly with the desire to know. To belong. To matter, even if only briefly.

"Oh, I'm alright, thank you." Eryn inclined his head slightly toward Azariah. His hand found the other’s arm, giving it a gentle squeeze as they both turned their attention to his sister. A smile tugged at his lips at the proud warmth in Azariah’s voice, the way he spoke of her as though she were his own child. It was disarmingly endearing.

While the blanket was being arranged, Eryn claimed the task of observing their surroundings.

The countryside spread out in a gentle sprawl of green, dappled with wildflowers that tilted lazily toward the sun. Grasses bowed in the breeze, their whisper mingling with the distant chirrup of birds hidden in the hedgerows. Butterflies drifted like flecks of paint on the air, while bees hummed industriously among blossoms. A narrow path meandered through it all, worn smooth by shepherds and townsfolk alike. Its earthen track was framed with moss and clover, softened where nature pressed close but never overtook it. The road did not feel abandoned but cherished — a ribbon of earth leading travelers onward through a land that breathed peace.

Eryn let himself breathe too, though the corset clamped his ribs like a vise. He settled onto the blanket, choosing shade for his shoulders but sunlight for his legs. For a fleeting moment, he longed to sprawl out, to soak in the warmth, but proper ladies did not sprawl. With a stifled huff, he crossed his ankles neatly and folded his hands, listening as Azariah spoke fondly of his family.

Envy pricked at his sides. Azariah’s closeness with his kin was something Eryn had never known; his own ties to father and stepmother were more strained than his corset’s laces. Still, he nodded along, tucking away details as each family member was introduced — though he couldn’t help an amused wince at mention of the crotchety grandfather who delighted in meddling.

When Orianne approached with a platter, Eryn perked instantly at the sight of fresh vegetables. His mouth watered as she drew nearer, though a brush to his arm pulled him back from his hungry reverie. He smiled sheepishly and nodded.

"Oh yes, I’m not too picky. I’ll take whatever you give me. Though, I do like a good white."

Without thinking, he returned the touch to Azariah’s leg with the back of his hand.

If Azariah was salivating over meat, Eryn was no better with greens. He plucked a small carrot and popped it into his mouth — only to freeze as Orianne introduced herself. Mortification prickled as he chewed hastily, forcing down the bite before bowing his head.

"I do remember you," he said earnestly. "I was just telling Azariah how alike you looked at the ceremony. You were wonderful."

Given a plate, Eryn served himself modest portions of broccoli, cauliflower, and salad, leaving space for the meat Azariah promised to fetch.

When Orianne asked after him, he blinked, caught off guard. He considered honesty — and decided on it. Far better than he could have imagined, though he reminded himself there was still an end goal to all this. He couldn’t let comfort lure him too deep.

"Your brother has been very kind to me so far," he said softly, nudging a carrot across his plate with his fork. "We’ve not had much time together, but he does his best to make me feel welcome and looked after. It’s… very refreshing."

His gaze drifted toward Azariah, a smile flickering before caution tugged it back down. He turned instead to Orianne, his voice quiet but steady.

"I couldn’t ask for a better match from Liraen herself."