I have no words to express the strange, conflicting feelings warring within my chest. There’s a cutting sense of loss, but also a promise of hope. But strongest of all is resignation.
Ichosethis.
I came here willingly for my people.
I’m ensuring a better future for this realm. I must never forget that.
And I can’t deny the potent relief in my chest knowing Zev will be my husband and not cold, snickering Faramir. It took only minutes in his presence to recognize the type of man he is—power-hungry and cruel.
And he will be king.
The thought twists my lips with displeasure, and a handmaidentsks. I straighten my mouth so she can continue dotting my lips with rouge.
I awoke to sharp raps on the door, then a never-ending line of handmaids filing into my chambers. Last night’s prolonged bath wasn’t enough—they subjected me to another equally long bath, except this time, they also plucked every single hair from my body. With pursed lips, I bear it all. I’ll play the part they expect—beautiful, demure princess.
When the handmaids finish with me, I definitelylookthe part. My wedding gown is pure white, with glittering gray gems sewn into the bodice in intricate, swirling patterns. The skirt flares at my hips and trails several feet behind me.
My dark hair has been heated and brushed painfully straight. Half of it is braided into an elegant crown, while the rest cascades over my shoulders, brushing the tops of my breasts.
I stare in the mirror. What is Father doing this very minute?
Is he proud?
Is he worried?
Have I crossed his mind at all?
“Come, princess,” one of the handmaids murmurs. Ten guards flank me instead of six, escorting me to the ceremony outside.
My lips part in surprise.
Even with only a day’s notice, the palace staff created something magical. The ceremony is in a vast garden, bursting with more blooms and trees than I’ve ever seen. They arch around the space like living walls, framing a petal-strewn path that cuts the garden in two. Sofas and chairs flank either side, shaded by a canopy of braided roots draped with cascading white blossoms.
At the front, a beautiful arch of roses and ivy stands ready.
And Zev stands ready before it.
My lungs forget how to work.
He’s dressed in a dark formal tunic and trousers, his black hair slightly tamed today. He hasn’t shaved—I prefer him this way, with rugged stubble shadowing his strong jawline. His throat bobs as he takes me in, and a sudden, fierce wave of happiness warms my chest. I’m gladhe’sthe one waiting at the altar.
With steady footsteps, I march down the aisle.
Alone.
The gazes of the assembled nobles and advisers pierce me like sharp needles—some appraising, others cold. A man with golden epaulets narrows his eyes, gaze crawling up my gown. A woman in violet whispers behind her gloved hand.
But I focus on the man before me—my only constant in weeks of uncertainty.
His steel-gray eyes trail over me as I reach the altar, and a genuine smile curves his full lips as our gazes lock.
My heart stutters.
He’s not the dashing prince from a far-off land I’d imagined, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find him utterly breathtaking. The wind plays with his dark locks, dappled sunlight glinting off his sharp cheekbones.
But the hush that falls over the audience isn’t reverent.
It’s watchful.
