When icy Lady Lydia Wetherell is forced to marry Lord Auren Jalen Thorne, a scarred war hero from a rival kingdom, peace hangs in the balance. She's a strategist; he's a soldier. Their union was meant to end a warβ
Instead, it sparks one between them.
But beneath the clash of duty and disdain, something dangerous begins to grow:
respect, longing... and the kind of love that could consume them.
The wind came off the northern pass like a living thing β sharp, cold, and unrelenting. It howled across the snow-dusted parapets of Highreach Keep and whipped around the tall towers like a warning. It had teeth tonight, and Auren Jalen Thorne stood in its bite without flinching. From his vantage point atop the battlements, AJ surveyed the valley below. The pines stood motionless in the frost, their limbs brittle and still under the weight of early winter. But the road that split the valley in half β once a narrow, treacherous trail used only by couriers and smugglers β now pulsed with the slow, ceremonial crawl of a foreign procession.
Dozens of riders moved in deliberate formation, their tabards a bold crimson embroidered with gold-threaded flame. The House of Caerthwyn. Southern nobility. AJ watched the banners sway as the procession wound its way toward the gates of Highreach like blood streaming toward a wound. The sight of it turned his stomach, though his face remained unreadable. Behind him, the flag of Velastra snapped against the stone with every gust of windβdeep forest green, silver-edged, a crowned wolf rampant. AJ's hand brushed the hilt of the ceremonial sword at his hip, not out of fear or aggression, but out of instinct. There was comfort in the cold weight of steel, in the absolutes of blade and bone. In the clarity of battle. Political entanglements, however, were far more treacherous.
His eyes narrowed as the golden carriage came into view at the rear of the Caerthwyn formation. Flanked by guards, shielded under layers of fabric and formality, it was unassuming in shape but dripping in symbolism. That was where she rode β the Lady Lydia Wetherell β the woman who would soon become his wife. A stranger bound to him by ink and decree. He had never met her. Hadn't seen even a sketch. But in less than a fortnight, she would bear the title 'Princess of Velastra'. And with it, his name.
AJ exhaled, slow and steady. A thin thread of vapor drifted into the air and vanished. The scar that ran from the edge of his jaw to the collar of his neck, nearly invisible in the daylight, twinged in the cold. The ghosts of the battlefield rarely stayed buried for long. Behind him, boots crunched lightly on the frost. He didn't need to turn to know who it was.
You've been out here for hours, Kael said, voice casual but not careless.
AJ remained still. The walls don't watch themselves.
Kael stepped up beside him, arms folded over his chest, a smirk playing on his lips. Taller than AJ by half a hand and broader in the shoulders, Kael was the kind of soldier who laughed easily, fought hard, and managed to make everyone like him within minutes of meeting. AJ tolerated him longer than most.
I'm fairly certain we've got a dozen watchmen for that exact purpose, Kael said, glancing sideways. But by all means, continue brooding. It's comforting to see some things never change.
AJ cut him a dry look. I'm not brooding. I'm observing.
Kael arched an eyebrow. With your arms crossed and that particular glare? Come now, AJ. The scowl's practically frozen to your face.
AJ sighed and ran a hand through his hairβa nervous habit he'd never quite broken. His fingers caught in the mess of dark strands and came away damp with melted snow. They're early.
Only by an hour. Maybe they're eager for the warm welcome.
Or they don't trust us to keep to our end of the treaty.
Kael gave a small shrug. Can you blame them? We've spent the last ten years teaching them to fear us.
AJ didn't respond. Fear had been Velastra's greatest weapon β its silence, its steel, its relentless discipline. For generations, his people had survived by being unbreakable. Unyielding. Now the treaty demanded softness. Unity. Smiles. Marriage.
He clenched his jaw. They'll expect me at the gate.
Kael leaned on the stone ledge. Your father said you're to stay out of sight until the feast. Smile too early and they'll think you're agreeable.
AJ snorted. Gods forbid.
Kael chuckled. Still, might be wise to get used to smiling. You're marrying a diplomat's daughter. Word is, she speaks five languages and wields a fan like a dagger.
AJ's expression didn't change. Let's hope she's better with fans than her father was with armies.
Kael gave a low whistle, amused and slightly impressed. Careful, AJ. That almost sounded bitter.
I don't care about her lineage. I care that I wasn't given a choice.
The words escaped before he could temper them. AJ hated the sound of them β petulant, selfish. But they were true. Every step of his life had been charted by someone else's hand. From the first time he held a wooden sword to the day he signed the treaty, he had belonged to Velastra. His future was not his ownβit was a battlefield, and he had always known how to survive battlefields. But marriage? Intimacy? Vulnerability? He was trained for war. Not for being known.
I don't want to be a symbol, he muttered, mostly to himself.
Kael looked at him, quieter now. You've been a symbol since you were ten, AJ. That's not going to change. But maybe β maybe there's a life in it yet.
AJ looked back toward the carriage. The gold canopy caught a sliver of late sun and blazed like fire. Somewhere behind those curtains was a woman as trapped as he was, no doubt bracing herself to play the part she had been cast in. He wondered if she resented it, too.
I don't need a life, he said at last. I need peace. And I need to ensure Velastra survives the cost of it.
Kael didn't argue. He knew better. But there was pity in his silence, and that stung more than words. A horn blew from the gate tower β a low, rising note that signaled the arrival of foreign nobility. The sound echoed through the stone and snow and set AJ's teeth on edge. The gates of Highreach, rarely opened to anyone not wearing Velastran steel, creaked on their hinges and began to part. AJ turned from the battlements.
Going to greet your bride after all?, Kael asked.
AJ shook his head. I'll see her tonight. For now, I need to speak with my father.
Kael gave a short nod. Try not to yell. Or stab anything. Or anyone.
No promises.
He descended the steps two at a time, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. The halls of Highreach were wide and spare, lined with stone torches and silent suits of armor. AJ moved through them like a blade through waterβquick, smooth, cold. Servants bowed as he passed. None of them made eye contact. Good. He wasn't in the mood for sympathy. The war room doors stood tall and shut when he reached them. He paused just outside, resting his hand briefly on the wood, as if listening for the weight of politics behind it. Then, without ceremony, he pushed them open.
Inside, his father sat alone at the long map table, a decanter of spiced wine at his elbow and scrolls spread before him. King Rhysten Thorne didn't look up.
You disobeyed my request, the king said, voice low and even.
I'm aware.
Rhysten lifted his gaze slowly, pale green eyes so like AJ's that it startled most men. The resemblance ended there. His father's face was harder, colder. Not scarred by battle, but by time and power.
I told you not to be seen until tonight.
I wasn't seen, AJ replied. Unless the mountains have learned to gossip.
His father didn't smile. He rarely did.
You're not a soldier anymore, Rhysten said. You are a bridge. Act like one.
AJ approached the table, placing both hands on the edge. Bridges collapse under too much weight. You'd do well to remember that.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint crackle of fire behind the hearth.
Then, finally, the king spoke. You think this is a punishment. It isn't. It's power, Auren. She is the key to securing the South. To ending the skirmishes. To stabilizing your future.
My future, AJ echoed bitterly. A crown I didn't ask for and a wife I didn't choose.
You were never meant to choose, Rhysten said. You were meant to lead. And that means sacrifice.
AJ's hands curled into fists on the map table. His eyes flicked to the carved lines that denoted Velastra's borders. How many times had he studied them as a boy? Traced them like scars? He had learned early that honour required silence. That duty required obedience. That love was a luxury afforded only to those who didn't have nations to carry. He straightened.
Then I will do my duty, he said, voice cool. But don't expect me to smile while I do it.
Rhysten didn't argue.
As AJ turned and walked from the room, the king's voice followed him like a whisper:
You'll find smiling easier, once she's yours.
But AJ wasn't so sure. He didn't need her to smile at. He needed someone who could see him. Not the weapon. Not the heir. Just Auren. And he wasn't convinced she existed. Not yet.
The wind had a cruel persistence to it, as it slipped through the seams of the velvet curtains of the carriage, like it had a personal grudge, curling around the ankles of Lady Lydia Wetherell's despite the fur-trimmed blankets that were carefully laid across her lap. She adjusted them once, quietly so as not to draw her father's attention. He didn't approve of fidgeting. Or showing any sort of discomfort. Or much of anything, really, that didn't fit within his narrow definition of poise.
They had been riding in silence for the better part of an hour. Across from her sat her father, the High Marquis of Caerthwyn. Lord Dorian Wetherell was a man of precision. Every line of his coat, every word from his mouth was measured. He had not spoken since the last checkpointβby Lydia's count, forty-three minutes ago.
But he was watching her now, and she felt it like a weight pressing against her.
"You will not speak first," he said at last. His voice was smooth, cool as glass. "Let him offer the greeting. Let him look uncertain. He must see that we are not desperate."
She didn't look up from her hands, which were folded too tightly in her lap."I wasn't planning to fall into his arms, if that's your concern."
Dorian exhaled through his nose, faintly displeased. "Flippancy is unbecoming. It is what people resort to when they're unsure of themselves. He's a soldier. Soldiers read silence as strength."
"And what do they read in obedience?" she asked without lifting her gaze. "Submission?"
He did not answer immediately, and she felt the pause between them like a splinter. Then: "They read what we teach them to. That is the point of diplomacy, Lydia. To author the perception."
Her eyes flicked to the carriage window. The walls of Highreach grew taller, closer, like jagged teeth rising from the stone. "And what if I wish to be seen as I am?"
Her father scoffed faintly. "Then you have failed before you began."
Today, she would meet the man she was to marry. She hadn't even seen his face. Her future was rolling toward her with the weight of snow-laden wheels, and the only thing she could think about was how she couldn't feel her toes.
"I'll do my best not to sneeze in his direction," Lydia murmured under her breath.
The carriage had slowed to a halt. A quiet knock at the side panel interrupted them. Dorian reached for the curtain, but Lydia beat him to it, pushing it aside with graceful restraint.
Her maid, Annis, stood outside in the cold, wind catching the edges of her hooded cloak. The girl's cheeks were red from the bite of winter, her hands fumbling slightly as she leaned closer to the narrow opening.
"My lady," Annis whispered. "They've opened the gates. We'll be inside the walls within the quarter hour."
Lydia inclined her head. "Thank you."
Annis hesitated. Then, with a glance toward Dorian, she added softly, "Are you certain you don't want the shawl from the trunk? You'll feel the cold more once you step out."
"I will be fine, Annis," she said gently, but firmly. "We do not dress for comfort today."
Annis nodded and withdrew, boots crunching as she moved back through the snow. The curtain fell shut.
"She's loyal," Dorian murmured. "It would be wise to reward it. In quiet ways."
"I always do," Lydia replied.
There was silence again. This time, she let it stretch.
When the carriage began to move once more, she turned her face slightly toward the fabric of the window. Highreach loomed nowβits dark stone towers etched against the grey sky, its walls old and brooding. The flags snapped in the wind, forest green edged in silver. A wolf, crowned and unbridled.
His banner.
Her hands tightened in her lap. Somewhere behind those walls stood the man who would become her husband. A man she had never met. A man who had bled on the battlefield, while she'd been trained to bleed in silence. They would not speak as equals today, but they would measure each other all the same.
She did not fear him. But she understood the weight of what he represented.
Not a man.
A symbol.
As she had become.
The noble daughter. The bargaining chip. The bride.
The procession passed under the gate, the shadow of Highreach falling over them like a veil. Lydia did not flinch. Her mask was already in place, woven from silk and strategy, stitched together by the ghost of every sacrifice her name had ever cost her.
She sat straighter, adjusted her gloves, and looked out at the closing gates. She wouldn't meet him until that evening. That was the arrangement. They would come together under the illusion of ceremony, cloaked in a performance, undercut by calculation.
But there would be a momentβsoonβwhen their eyes would meet, and all of it would begin.
And Lydia, for all her silence and diplomacy, was very much looking forward to seeing who flinched first.
AJ's afternoon had been consumed by a flurry of obligations β meetings that ranged from the strictly judicial to the painstakingly ceremonial. He had sat through a court session in the morning, followed by a long-winded strategy briefing with his father's council, and then yet another round of discussions about the wedding. His wedding. It was strange, discussing colour schemes, ceremonial dances, and guest lists for a bride he hadn't even met yet. Not once. And yet, here they were β already negotiating the seating arrangements for a woman who would soon share his life, his home, and his name.
The thought drew a half-smile from him as he sat back in the carved wooden chair of the council chamber, his mind drifting. He understood the necessity of it all. The wedding wasn't just a personal affair β it was a political pact, a symbol of reconciliation between two once-warring kingdoms. This union had been more than a decade in the making, long before he or Lady Lydia Wetherell had any say in it. Still, it all felt a little absurd. Scripted, even. As though he were merely a player on a stage performing a role written by men long dead.
But he welcomed the distraction. The constant movement, the chatter of the advisors, the endless planning β it kept his nerves at bay. Because no matter how composed he might seem, AJ was acutely aware of the weight pressing on his shoulders. Tonight, he would meet her. Not just his bride-to-be, but the very symbol of the fragile peace they were trying to build. Lady Lydia Wetherell.
Evening descended, and with it came a sense of gravity that settled over the entire palace like a heavy cloak. The grand hall had been transformed into a vision of splendor β gilded tapestries lined the walls, flickering torches cast warm light across the polished stone floor, and a long banquet table stood laden with delicacies that barely anyone would eat. This was no mere social gathering. It was a moment years in the making, a ceremony that would bring two bloodlines β two kingdoms β face to face.
The "meeting ceremony," as it was being formally called, would unfold in carefully orchestrated steps. First, the banquet. Then a performance of music and dance meant to represent the joining of cultures. Finally, the meeting itself β AJ and Lady Lydia, walking toward each other from opposite ends of the grand hall until they met in the centre, under the gaze of hundreds of noblemen, warriors, and diplomats. A symbolic convergence designed to mark the end of nearly two decades of conflict and mistrust.
AJ entered the hall beside his father, King Halric of Velastra, to the sound of trumpets and the polite applause of the court. His boots echoed sharply on the stone as he walked with measured composure. And then he saw her.
Lady Lydia Wetherell had already arrived, flanked by her own delegation from the southern kingdom of Caerthwyn. She stood with effortless poise at the far end of the hall, her gown a flowing cascade of sapphire silk that shimmered under torchlight. Even from across the vast room, AJ could see that she was beautiful β elegant in the way a swan glides across water. But beauty, he reminded himself, was only surface-deep. What kind of person was she? What did she think of this marriage, of him? Soon, he would find out.
The banquet passed in a blur. AJ sat through course after course, politely nodding at guests, occasionally responding to his father's quiet remarks. But he hardly tasted a thing. His eyes kept drifting toward her, and his mind was a flurry of questions he couldn't ask β yet.
Entertainment followed β an elaborate display of song, harp, and ceremonial dance. It was beautiful, objectively. But AJ was elsewhere, his thoughts anchored to the moment that hovered just ahead.
And then, the time came.
The hall fell into reverent silence. The music stopped. The chatter faded. From each end of the room, the two delegations began to move. AJ walked slowly, flanked by his father and Kael, his most trusted advisor and closest friend. Opposite him, Lady Lydia advanced with equal poise, accompanied by her mother and the High Marquis of Caerthwyn.
Step by step, the distance closed.
Finally, they stood face to face.
There was a beat of silence β longer than etiquette demanded β where neither of them spoke. AJ could see the calculation in her eyes. Lydia Wetherell was not meek, not cowed by the grandeur of the moment. She was watching him, waiting. Testing, perhaps.
He inhaled slowly. And then, despite knowing his father would disapprove of him speaking first, he stepped forward.
Welcome, Lady Wetherell, he said, voice clear and firm. To Velastra β and to your new home, Highreach.
There was a subtle shift in the room. Not scandal, exactly β but surprise. Tradition dictated that the bride offer the first greeting. But AJ had chosen to break with protocol. A small risk, but a deliberate one. If he was to become the kind of king he aspired to be, he would need to make choices that served the future, not the past.
He met her gaze, searching for a reaction. A flicker of surprise, perhaps. Amusement. Approval. He didn't know if she saw the meaning behind the gesture, but he hoped she did. Because this night was only the beginning.
The sun was low when the gilded doors of the guest wing burst open and the sound of silk and breathless chatter flooded into the room. At least a dozen maids swarmed toward Lydia, like how birds flew towards a still branchβeach armed with a task, a tray, a pair of shoes or a comb or a ribbon they'd decided would "suit her complexion." She stood still in the centre of the room, shoulders squared beneath the pale slip of her undergarments, her expression unreadable as a tide of bodies moved around her. She had long ago learned that stillness, in moments like this, was its own kind of control.
She heard them chatter about sapphire threads versus ones in amethyst. One had argued that braiding of her hair would be far better than leaving it in loose curls. One of the younger girls dropped a comb in her hurry to fetch a warmer shawl and went red with embarrassment as it clattered against the floor.
And Lydia saw them all... the gossipers.
They were always easy to spot: the ones whose hands moved a beat too slowly, whose eyes flitted toward her reflection in the mirror more often than their workβwatching her not with reverence, but with curiosity. Judging. Imagining. Repeating every guess behind closed doors the moment they left the room.
She caught Annis's eye across the sea of skirts and whispered opinions. The maid, folding a pair of gloves near the hearth, raised a single brow in reply. Lydia blinked onceβdry amusement, sharp as the winter airβand Annis's mouth twitched into the closest thing to a smirk.
It wasn't until the final touches had been addedβa string of pearls nestled in her collarbone, her sleeves pinned with Caethwyn silverβthat the room began to empty. One by one, the maids curtsied and drifted out, chattering to each other like wind through a hedge.
When only Annis remained, she approached with a small basin and a cloth, gently wiping the last traces of setting powder from Lydia's wrist.
"They'll talk about you," Annis said softly, "even more after tonight."
Lydia didn't look away from the mirror. "Let them. Talking is the only power they're permitted."
"But it's you who walks toward the fire," Annis murmured. "And alone."
For a moment, Lydia didn't answer. Her reflection stared backβregal, composed, untouched. A woman prepared not for dinner, but for display. She looked like someone else entirely. And yet, her bones remembered the weight of every sacrifice that had brought her here.
"They want a figure," she said quietly. "A symbol. Not a person. I can manage that."
Annis set the cloth aside. "You could also manage a warm smile. Just once."
Lydia gave her a sideways glance. "Don't ask the moon to be the sun, Annis."
And thenβso fleeting it barely existedβshe smiled. A real one. Small and tight and trembling at the edges.
"Thank you," she added.
Annis straightened her sleeves. "You only have to survive tonight."
"I always do."
The hall was already lit like a shrine when Lydia arrived, every sconce and chandelier aflame. The scent of spiced wine and pressed flowers clung to the air, thick and welcoming. Her father stood to her right, silent and stone-faced. Her mother to her left, her grip light at Lydia's elbow, as if afraid she might vanish if held too tightly.
Across the vast space, he waited.
Auren Jalen Thorne...
He was taller than she had expected, lean and controlled in his posture. His expression was a fortress. He looked like a man too used to blood to know how to dress in anything gentler. But he was watching herβreally watching. Not assessing her dress, nor her smile, but her. And something about thatβthe stillness of itβtugged just faintly in her chest.
The music stopped.
They walked.
Lydia's gown whispered across the stone as she moved, every step deliberate, spine a line of regal defiance. Her pulse beat fast, but not with nervesβwith resolve. She knew how to make an entrance. She knew how to wear silence like armour. And she knew precisely how to hold a man's gaze without ever surrendering her own.
She said nothing...
Her gaze slipped sidewaysβto her fatherβjust long enough to cut across the air with pointed finality. Her look said everything she would not: "I held my tongue. I obeyed. That is all you'll have from me."
And then, AJ spoke first.
Lydia blinked. Not out of shock, but consideration.
So, she thought. He knows how to step forward when others would wait.
Interesting...
"Your Grace," she said, her tone low but sure, "thank you for the welcome. It is... not every day one is received as both guest and gambit."
She let the word hang thereβgambitβlike a dare.
Then, ever so faintly, her lips curved.
"But I suspect you and I are both accustomed to playing roles that cost more than they offer."
And with that, Lady Lydia Wetherell smiledβcalm and sharp and almost impossible to read.
Your Grace, thank you for the welcome. It is... not every day one is received as both guest and gambit. But I suspect you and I are both accustomed to playing roles that cost more than they offer.
Lydia's words hung in the air, deceptively light in delivery, but sharp enough in meaning to draw blood if one wasn't paying attention. Auren found himself fighting the urge to laugh β not out of mockery, but in something closer to awe. There was an audacity to her, a self-awareness he hadn't expected. Not many would dare speak so openly in front of the court, not when politics was a dance of veiled implications and hidden knives. But she had walked into the lion's den and offered herself up not as prey, but as a player.
He matched her smile with one of his own, deliberate in its restraint, calculated to give nothing away. He was almost certain she would be reprimanded the moment she stepped away β if not by her father, then by one of the stoic-faced advisors lingering behind the dais, eyes like crows on carrion. They'd call her impulsive. Reckless. But Auren saw it differently. He saw intelligence, confidence, and something far more valuable: truth. A rare commodity in courts such as this.
She was no mere gambit, that much was clear. And if she had been intended as such β sent across borders dressed in silks, wrapped in diplomacy, and cloaked in expectation β then someone had gravely underestimated the package they were delivering. Lydia was not a piece to be moved across a board. She was a player in her own right. And that changed everything.
Indeed, my lady, he said, voice warm but careful. But one can hope that together, we can forge new roles, agreed upon between us.
It was a subtle gamble β acknowledging the performative theatre of their betrothal while extending something that could be mistaken for invitation, alliance... or even intimacy. And perhaps it was all three. Auren knew the walls had ears. Courtiers would recall each inflection, every glance exchanged. His father most of all. The King had already made it clear that this union was not to be complicated by sentiment, especially not so soon. Not until treaties had cooled, until swords had been fully lowered, until the children of both nations had forgotten what it was to bury their dead over borderlines.
Auren had grown up watching leaders, his father included, build legacies out of compromises that drained the soul. He had seen marriages arranged like trades, alliances sealed with rings and cold silences. He had no interest in that kind of future. If this union was to mean anything, it had to be more than duty, more than political theatre. It had to be rooted in something tangible. And she had just proven herself to be something far more tangible than he'd been led to expect.
He was already flirting with trouble, and he knew it. Not with her, but with the ancient machinery that had brought her here. With the expectations that clung to every move they made tonight. His father would speak to him sharply at the end of the night, no doubt behind closed doors, where the bite of disapproval could be clean and quiet. There would be no public rebuke, but Auren would hear the disdain in every measured word. Do not show preference too quickly. Do not reveal emotion. Do not act as though she is anything but a diplomatic solution.
But it was already too late for that. Auren had seen her, truly seen her, and now he couldn't pretend she was merely a symbol of peace. She was a person who challenged him, who understood the cost of performance, who had walked into the fire without blinking. He could not look at her and pretend this was just ceremony.
And then, the signal came.
The brass of the orchestra cut through the murmurs of the hall, commanding attention. A fanfare both majestic and somber announced the next act of the evening: the first dance between the newly engaged couple. It was the moment that would define not only the evening but possibly the future of both kingdoms. A simple waltz, rehearsed in private over the past weeks, now transformed into a spectacle upon which the stability of peace might depend.
The floor cleared with graceful urgency, gowns whispering over marble, boots stepping back in unison. The crowd gave them space, but their eyes remained β sharp, assessing, expectant. Advisors and ambassadors, warriors and queens. Both families lined the perimeter, statues in velvet and steel. Everyone was watching.
Auren stood alone in the center, feeling the press of a thousand silent judgments weighing on his shoulders. Lydia beside him, silent, poised. Together, they were no longer individuals. They were metaphor. Symbol. Projection. Two bodies forced into synchronicity not for love, not yet, but for the possibility of something better than war.
And so, as the music rose, as the first steps loomed before them, Auren lifted his chin. This was their moment. Theirs to shape. Theirs to survive.
Let the court watch. Let the kingdoms hold their breath.
He would not perform meekly. Not tonight.
He would lead. And maybe, just maybe, she would let him.
"Indeed, my lady... But one can hope that together we can forge new roles, agreed upon between us..."
His words lingered longer than they should have.
They had been unexpected, not just in tone, but in intention. Lydia had been prepared for something rehearsed, something lacquered in politeness and stripped of sincerity. But that... That had the shape of something more.
'Had he meant it?'
The question had played over and over in her mind. Had it been genuine, or simply another note in the careful symphony of the evening's performance? Perhaps he, too, had studied the rules of diplomacy as weaponry, or he knew how to wound and soothe with equal precision. Or maybe, thought the thought was almost too dangerous to entertain, he saw in her something true, and responded in kind.
Her eyes never left his. "Then let it be so," she said, calmly, her meaning veiled only in ceremony. "If this is to be a union of kingdoms, may it also be one of will, not just iron and ink."
She could feel the weight of her father's gaze boring into her from across the room. Cold and appraising. She didn't need to look at him to know what he was thinking, how tightly he was holding his temper behind the folds of noble etiquette. She had spoken just enough, with just the right softness, but the meaning? The meaning had teeth.
She turned her head slowly, just enough to meet his stare with the full poise of a daughter bred to be both blade and balm. Her eyes spoke plainly across the gilded space between them:
'I have done what you asked. No more.'
And then, she turned back to Auren. As the orchestra's brass blared its signal and the hall began to move with purpose, Lydia allowed herself one long, quiet breath. The crowd shifted, and the floors cleared. The fanfare sharpened the moment into something ceremonial... something irrevocable.
Stepping forward to meet Auren at the centre of the marble expanse, standing beside him in the pool of torchlight that had become their shared stage. He hadn't offered his arm yet, but his presence alone was enough. She could feel the attention curling around them like a morning fog rolling in. Nobles had leaned forward ever so slightly. Even the candles seemed to lean in.
Tilting her chin toward him, her voice barely a murmur, loud enough only for him. "If we were to begin again, my Lord, let it be with truth. For both our sakes."
Then, without waiting for permission, she placed her gloved hand lightly on in his. It was not submission, but a choice.
And the music began.
They moved, neither slow nor rushed, perfectly timed, as if they had rehearsed it in dreams. But beneath every step, every turn, there was more than formality. There was inquiry... testing... reading. The brush of gloved fingers was civil. The tension in their shared silence had been anything but.
They danced in front of courtiers who had little interest in love, only loyalty and peace. She moved as she always had, but tonight, she was not gliding across polished stone for her father, nor was she dancing for Caerthwyn.
She was dancing for herself. And beside her, she wondered if he had been.
Because if he was, if there was any truth in the words he had dared to say...
Then perhaps they would not merely endure this marriage. Maybe they might just redefine it...
If we were to begin again, my Lord, let it be with truth. For both our sakes.
Simple, measured, quietly devastating. The words struck Auren with a clarity that eclipsed everything else in the candlelit ballroom. He had not expected to feel much at all tonight. A dull flicker of triumph, perhaps. A perfunctory relief that the negotiations had reached their inevitable conclusion. Or even, if he were honest, a simmering resentment. That two bloodlines, two sovereign houses, two entire lives could be stitched together by paper and ink and expectations. But this... this was not what he had braced for.
Lady Wetherell had spoken the words without urgency or reproach. They had slipped from her lips like the smoke from the torches that lined the northern corridors of his ancestral home. Smoke that lingered long after the fire had died, scenting stone and skin with memory. And now those words settled in him like ash, delicate but immutable. Her statement had not required a response, and so he gave none. But in the silence that followed, Auren realized he had no interest in silences with this woman. He wanted their lives to be cluttered with words - careful, clumsy, lustful, brutal. He wanted to be undone by her honesty, to be made uncomfortable by her gaze. He wanted to know what she would sound like when she cried his name, not as a plea for mercy or as a vow of allegiance, but as a sound pulled from the marrow of her.
And yet, despite all he felt, he remained still beside her as the violins swelled for the opening steps of the bridal dance. Duty returned like a cloak. The ritual of the dance was a familiar one. Each kingdom practiced its own variations, and yet the core remained: a sweeping series of arcs and pauses, meant to symbolize harmony, to promise grace, to show the court that the marriage was not only strategic, but divinely blessed. A performance, and tonight, they were the lead actors. Auren moved with the practiced rhythm of muscle memory. He had learned this dance not from courtiers or tutors, but from family. Those who laughed with him when he stumbled, who understood that even princes could misstep. He had practiced first with his sister, Mara. Older than him by two years, sharp of wit and impatient with his clumsy feet.
You look like you're trying to stab the floor, not court a woman, she had said, rolling her eyes as he missed the turn. I'm courting peace, not a woman, Auren had muttered under his breath, earning a smirk from his youngest cousin, Theo, who had already grown tall and gangly, all elbows and mischief. That's not what the ambassadors will see. If you trip over your bride's hem, you'll court mockery , Theo had said, puffing his chest in a theatrical mimicry of their father. Isolde, his quieter cousin, more thoughtful and always watching, had simply offered him a hand and whispered, Let it feel like music, not like war. Or you'll always be dancing with ghosts.
They had all practiced in the old drawing room with its cracked tiles and endless mirrors. Mara would have the music players stay for hours and make him dance repeatedly until his body moved without thought. Theo would disappear, only to return with bottles of pear brandy stolen from the cellar, laughing as they spun each other in chaotic circles. And Isolde would step in when Auren grew too solemn, reminding him that some rituals, no matter how political, required tenderness. He hadn't thought of those evenings in months, not until now, as his fingers found Lydia's, and the opening bars of the first movement began. She moved with him. Not ahead, not behind, but beside. Not leading, not yielding. Perfect counterpoint. Auren understood, instantly, that she had practiced too. But not with sisters or cousins, not with teasing and warmth. No, Lydia's practice had been different. Studied. Solitary. Fierce. He could feel it in the way her steps made no demands, in the way she held tension in her shoulders like someone always waiting for a blow.
Her precision humbled him. Humbled him, and something more - stirred him.
He felt the heat of her palm against his, and it made him imagine what it would be like to feel her fingertips not through silk gloves but on his bare chest. To see the restraint in her eyes burn away, to hear her voice not in diplomacy but in surrender. Not silence, but sighs. Not rehearsals, but unmaking.
If we were to begin again, let it be with truth.
He wondered what truths she wanted to hear. That he had expected her to be colder? That he had not wanted this marriage until she made him wonder what it would be like to want? That he had not touched a woman in months because none of them had names that held weight like hers? That he found himself already counting the days until he could taste her secrets? Their bodies moved as if tethered to a single breath. Auren found himself thinking absurd thoughts - of her scent, of the hollow at her throat, of the sound she might make if he kissed her spine. He was not supposed to think of her like this, not here, not yet. But everything about her invited transgression. Not seduction, no. She wasn't asking for anything. That was what made it worse. She was not trying to allure. And still, he was drawn.
He had never believed in the notion of soulmates. It seemed too convenient, too romanticized, the sort of belief that absolved people of the hard work of love. But standing there, moving in tandem with a woman he barely knew, who had spoken only a single truth to him, he felt that something elemental had shifted. To the kingdoms, they were symbols. A peace accord clad in flesh. Two noble bloodlines forced to intertwine like rivers damned into unnatural tributaries. But to each other? What would they become? overs? Rivals? Strangers in a gilded cage? Or something else; something dangerous and sacred. Something forged in honesty.
As the dance came to its final arc, he leaned close enough for her to hear him above the strings and the breathless hush of the watching court.
My Lady, if this dance is a precursor to the life we will soon share, I dare say we are off to a good start.
It was not a vow, not yet. But it was an offering. A beginning. And, for the first time in many years, Auren felt the future not as a weight, but as a possibility.
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