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?

[i]“When flame meets tide…”[/i] 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. [color=#93E9BE][i]This was going to be harder than I thought.[/i][/color]

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 [i]treasure like you[/i] 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. [color=#93E9BE]“Red does not suit me,”[/color] he said, soft. [color=#93E9BE]“But I’ll wear it anyway, if only to match you.”[/color]

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 [color=c83f49][i]“Will you give me something green in exchange?"[/i][/color] and Eryndor hesitated.

A thousand rules of Lunevere restraint pushed against him. 

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

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. [color=#93E9BE]“For the record…”[/color] He looked up then, voice lower. There was a flicker of something in his expression, guarded but real. [color=#93E9BE]“…this shade isn’t for just anyone.”[/color]

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.

[color=#93E9BE]"..It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, my lord,"[/color] 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. [color=#93E9BE]"A strange way to meet, perhaps—but such is the world we live in, is it not?"[/color]

He dared a glance up, just long enough to catch the other man’s expression, then dropped his gaze again. [color=#93E9BE]"I confess, I had imagined something... different. Brighter rooms. Fuller greetings. But I suppose those belong to another time."[/color] 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.