“I needed to make sure you were all right,” he said.
“I’m not looking,” he added quickly, covering his eyes, then peeking through his fingers. “Promise.”
That earned him what he was aiming for: a laugh, soft and reluctant. She looked down, but her mouth curved all the same.
“You are being absurd,” she muttered.
He hesitated mid-stride. “And you are,” he faltered for a moment, noting the strain around her mouth, “—beautiful. But also, paler than usual.”
“I’m fine,” she lied.
She was always fine, even when she wasn’t.
He leaned against the windowsill beside her, careful not to touch her gown. Close enough to smell the lavender she wore by habit. His own collar still held the rosemary oil from the morning shave, the same scent he’d worn since they met. She had once said it smelled like old books and mountain air. He’d never changed it after that.
Dasmon watched her reflection in the window. Even like this, she looked every inch the woman he’d written to all those years: precise, thoughtful, slightly untouchable. The candlelight drew soft edges across her features—the faint curve of her heart-shaped face, the small, upturned nose that used to wrinkle when she laughed. That beauty mark near her lip, barely visible, was still there; he remembered tracing it once in thought, never in touch.
“You’re not nervous?” she asked.
“Terrified,” he admitted. “But it’s the good kind.”
“Good? You’re marrying a political alliance,” she said, more to the window than to him.
He shook his head. “No. I’m marrying the girl who annotatedSons of the Winter Thronein red ink and called the protagonist a self-important hypocrite.”
“Hewas,” she murmured.
“I know,” his lips curved. “That’s why we’re here.”
He still remembered the first time he’d met her. She was nine years old, small, pale, too serious for a child her age, standing in the marble hall with boots two sizes too big. She’d slipped on the ice outside the Dvorenic estate, all dignity and no balance. He’d caught her before she fell and thought, even then,there she is.
Every year after, he’d sent her books, each one with some note tucked inside. And every year, she’d send them back, lined with commentary sharp enough to make him laugh. She’d been his favorite conversation long before she smiled at him.
He’d not once in his life told her that he fell in love—because love, to him, wasn’t a revelation to confess. It was a practice maintained with quiet consistency, the way one learns a difficult language or restores an old painting.
He had loved her since they were children.
And today, finally, he will get to marry her.
He reached into his coat and pulled something from the inner pocket.
A red thread.
“For luck,” he said, holding it out. “I think we both need it today.”
Her hand brushed his glove as she took it. He felt the contact similar to a jolt—noiseless, but unmistakable. He could swear her throat moved when she swallowed.
“So it is truly happening,” she said.
“It is,” he didn’t let himself look away.
He wanted to kiss her. But it didn’t feel right—not because the emotion wasn’t true, but because their story had never been built that way. And that was on him.
So instead, he stepped back.
“I should go,” he said quietly. “Before Isildeth finds a way to have me executed for decorum crimes.”
That earned him another smile.
