I drape the black shawl over my head and face the door. The door opens to a tunnel of shadows. I’m vaguely aware of the fact that dozens of night legionnaires have lined up to create that tunnel, their dark magic forming the shadows that conceal me from them and everyone else. It’s so thick and murky that I can’t even see the castle. The only thing guiding me is the flickering lamplight at the open door they’re leading me toward.
I don’t feel my legs move, or the ground under my feet. All I know is that I’m walking through those shadows like I’m supposed to and that I make it to the end.
Lanterns guide my way through the halls. There’s no welcoming greeting for me. No grand parade, no one.
As the prince’s betrothed, I cannot be seen by anybody until he sets eyes on me. It’s one of the many rules that the Pendralian courtiers live by. They die by them, too.
The sitting room is beautiful, but modest compared to what I expected of the castle. The floors are gray stone, and tapestries line the walls. A large fire is crackling and burning in the fireplace, filling the room with heat. The only furniture is a red velvet couch. It’s a room made for very short-term use.
Anxiety twists in my gut. This isn’t exactly the welcome I expected as the princess of Iskvaland.
Footsteps sound. Lots of them. I drape the black scarf over my face, nearly obstructing my view. It’s meant to prevent anyone other than my betrothed from seeing me, but it’s a welcome barrier that keeps my emotions hidden. At least for now.
“Princess Sabina Volkov, welcome to Aurorium. I am Darius, head priest for the emperor. I’m here to witness your unveiling to your betrothed, Prince Caiden Pendral, crown prince of the Pendralian Empire and heir to the throne.”
I incline my head to indicate that I’m listening, but my heart is pounding so hard now that I fear he might hear it in the silence that follows.
The priest steps back, pressing himself against the wall. Details are impossible to make out, but I can tell he’s lowered his head so as to not see me. “She is ready, Your Highness.”
A million thoughts race through my mind. All the protocols, the suggestions, the rules. So much to learn and never enough time.
His footsteps are quiet, and when he enters, I can only make out his outline. He’s tall and broad-shouldered.
“Princess Sabina. I know you have had a long journey, and as soon as we are through with this archaic nonsense, you mayretreat to your rooms.” His tone is cold, devoid of emotion. Detached.
Fine with me.
He stops in front of me, then reaches for the fabric. Instead of gently folding it, he lifts the whole thing quickly, sending my blonde hair flying in front of my face. I smooth it away from my eyes, then look up at the man I’m to marry.
He’s got brown hair that touches his shoulders. His jaw is strong and his lips full. He’s got thick brows and brown eyes that almost look amber in this light. He’s more handsome than I expected.
“Well, it seems you really do resemble your likeness. That’s a pleasant surprise.” He takes hold of one of my blonde curls. “It’s a pity we could end up with children who have your fair hair. But I suppose that’s the price we pay for treaties and the sacrifices we make as royals, isn’t it?”
“We could always abstain and produce no children,” I offer, mock sweetness in my tone. “Then, you wouldn’t have to be disappointed by their hair color.”
He releases the strand of my hair. “Women in Pendralia are to be silent and do as they’re told. Are we going to have a problem?”
“Of course not, my prince.” I tighten one of my hands into a fist to keep myself from saying what I really want to say.
“Good.” He glances over at the priest. “Darius. It is done. I accept the betrothal. She is as expected.”
The priest lifts his head, and his eyes find mine. He’s just as cold and detached as his prince. I don’t know why I expected anything else. It’s what I’ve always been taught about the royals.
“I will make an offering in honor of your betrothal.” Darius inclines his head, then leaves the room.
“Brevan,” the prince calls.
A night legionnaire steps into the room, eyes downcast. “Yes, Your Highness.”
“No need to avert your eyes, Brevan. It’s done.”
The guard looks up, but he keeps his attention on the prince.
“Escort the princess to her chambers. Her lady’s maids should be waiting and will take over from there. But I want you outside her room for now. The last thing I need is a dead Iskvalandian princess on my hands. Nobody in or out of that room without my permission, understand?”
The legionnaire, Brevan, nods. “Yes, Your Highness.”
The prince turns and leaves without even a backward glance at me.
