The west garden is his mother's favorite.

It's all low hedges and gravel paths, with a central fountain that tricks the ear into thinking the silence is less complete than it is. Rose bushes climb trellises along the walls. The air smells faintly of lavender and damp stone.

Isla stands by the fountain, one hand trailing in the water. She has changed into a gown of deep blue, simpler than the one she wore earlier, her hair partially unbound so that a few strands escape around her face.

She looks up when he approaches.

"Your Highness," she says.

"Elian is fine," he replies. "We're to be engaged, apparently. It seems strange to stand on ceremony."

"Isla, then," she says. "If we're throwing out titles."

He nods, stopping a comfortable distance away. "I hope the accommodation suits you."

"It does," she says. "Virell is less fond of marble. More fond of wind. But the linens here don't smell like mildew, so I count myself fortunate."

He huffs a quiet laugh. "We do what we can."

She studies him for a moment. "You don't look like your father," she says.

He blinks. "Oh?"

"You have your mother's mouth," she says. "But your eyes are your own."

Elian doesn't quite know what to do with that. "Is that a compliment?"

"An observation," she says. "I find those more useful than compliments."

"You must be very popular at court," he says.

"I'm still here," she replies. "So I must be doing something right."

There's no arrogance in it. Just a calm, unflinching self-awareness.

He gestures to the bench near the fountain. "Shall we sit?"

She nods and walks over, skirts swishing softly. He sits at the far end. The stone is cool through the fabric of his coat.

For a moment, they just listen to the water.

"You're younger than I thought," she says eventually.

"I'm twenty-three," he says. "Older than I feel most days."

"And younger than they talk about you in letters," she says. "In those, you're already a king in everything but name. Which is, frankly, ridiculous." She tips her head. "I'm twenty-two, in case you were wondering. Though in the letters, I think I'm some ethereal beauty born fully formed from the head of a diplomat."

Elian raises his brows. "You're not?"

She gives him a dry look. "If I were, I suspect my back would hurt less."

"Ah," he says. "You're made of bones. How disappointing for the ballads."

"Terribly," she agrees.

Silence settles again, but it's not uncomfortable. Just… tentative. Feeling out shapes in the dark.

"I imagine they've told you a great deal about me," Elian says.

"They told me you were serious, dutiful, and good with a sword," Isla says. "And that you were prepared to fulfill your responsibilities as crown prince."

He suppresses a wince. "Concise."

"What did they tell you about me?" she asks.

"That you are intelligent, educated, and committed to securing Virell's future," he says. "And that you are prepared to fulfill your responsibilities as princess."

She snorts. "We could write the letters ourselves at this point."

"I'm not sure they'd like what we'd write," Elian says.

"I'm certain they wouldn't," she replies.

There's a thread of shared understanding there, taut and unexpected.

"You seem…" He searches for a word that isn't sharp and isn't soft. "Resigned."

She leans back, hands resting on the bench. "To this? Of course. I was promised to a partner in another kingdom before I could spell my own name. The specifics of which cousin of which ally changed over the years, but the general shape did not."

"You never considered saying no?" he asks, then realizes how naïve it sounds.

She gives him a level look. "To whom, exactly? My father? The council? The weather?"

He flushes. "I suppose not."

"Have you?" she asks.

"Have I what?"

"Considered saying no."

The word hangs there, absurd and dangerous.

Elian's gaze drops to his hands. "And to whom, exactly, would I say it?" he echoes.

She hums softly, conceding the point.

"I made my peace with it years ago," Isla says. "Or something close to peace. 'No' is not a luxury people like us are often allowed. I'd rather spend my energy on the decisions I can influence."

"Such as adjusting tariffs so your father doesn't overreach and annoy my father into closing the border," Elian says.

One corner of her mouth lifts. "You noticed."

"I suspect that entire suggestion was yours," he adds.

"Partially," she says. "My father likes to push to see where the edges are. I prefer to know the edges in advance and nudge things toward them without falling off."

He studies her profile. "Do you want this alliance? Truly?"

She's quiet for a moment. "Want is a complicated word," she says at last. "I want Virell to survive. I want my people to have grain when the eastern storms fail us. I want us not to be annexed by a neighbor with fewer scruples than Aurea." She looks at him. "In that sense, yes, I want it."

"And in the sense of marrying a stranger?" he asks.

Her gaze doesn't waver. "No one asked me if I wanted to marry anyone."

The honesty of it takes him aback.

"The ballads leave that part out," he says.

"The ballads are lies sung on full stomachs," she says. "I trust them about as much as I trust a merchant who opens with poetry."

Elian feels a short, sharp laugh escape him. "You'll fit in well with our council."

"Please don't wish that on me," she says lightly. Then, more serious: "Your father seems… firm. But not cruel. Your mother seems kind. You seem…" She tilts her head, studying him. "Tired."

He stiffens, instinctively reaching for denial. But he's too worn down to hold it.

"I am," he says simply.

"Good," she replies.

That startles him. "Good?"

"I'd be more concerned if you were thrilled by all of this," she says. "At least your exhaustion suggests you understand the weight of it."

"Reassuring," he says dryly. "We're both very soberly unhappy. A perfect match."

She smiles faintly. "Do you believe in love, Elian?"

He blinks. "That's an abrupt question."

"I find it's better to ask certain things directly," she says. "It saves time and reduces the risk of someone composing a speech."

He thinks of Rowan in the tavern, of two men dancing, of longing like a bruise in his chest.

"Yes," he says quietly. "I do."

She watches him with an expression he can't immediately parse. "Have you ever been in love?"

The lie comes easily. Too easily. "No."

She lifts one eyebrow. "You're sure."

"Yes."

He's not. But the part of him that's sure is buried under too much fear to surface here, with this woman who will be his wife in every official way but never in the one that matters.

Isla nods slowly. "I have," she says. "Once. Or something that felt enough like it to convince me for a few years."

Elian starts. "What happened?"

"What always happens," she says. "Their family did not find the prospect of their child tying their future to someone whose hand was already promised." She shrugs, a small, controlled movement. "We were young. We thought we could be cleverer than generations of people who weren't."

"I'm sorry," he says. The words feel insufficient.

"I'm not," she replies. "It taught me that love is for songs. Usefulness is for people like us."

He thinks of her, younger, heartsore, learning to tuck that part of herself away. "You don't believe that."

"I do," she says. "At least, I try to. Belief is easier when repeated often."

"Elian," she adds, turning to face him fully, "I don't need you to love me."

He looks at her. Really looks. There's steel there, yes. But there's also an old ache, not unlike his own.

"What do you need?" he asks.

Her answer is immediate. "For you to do your part. To stand beside me before a court that will look for any reason to dismiss me. To remember that this alliance is bigger than either of us. To not undermine me when my council is already waiting for me to fail." She pauses. "And to be kind, when you can."

He swallows. "That's all?"

"That's more than most people have," she says quietly.

He thinks of his parents' marriage, of the polite distance that sometimes softens into something like warmth, sometimes hardens into something like resentment.

"I can try," he says.

She nods. "That's all I ask."

"And you?" he ventures. "What will you offer?"

"I will not try to change you into someone you're not," she says. "I will defend you when my own advisors inevitably try to pull you apart to see what makes you useful. And I will tell you the truth, even when it is inconvenient."

He meets her gaze. "You're not what I expected," he says again.

"Neither are you," she replies. "That's… probably for the best."

He almost smiles. Almost.

"The worst part of this," she says, looking back at the fountain, "is that we would probably have liked each other, if we'd met under different circumstances. As allies, perhaps. Co-conspirators. Now we're… this."

She flicks her fingers in a vague gesture that encompasses the palace, the contract waiting to be written, the future pressing in around them.

"We can still be allies," Elian says.

She considers. "We can," she agrees. "Just not in the way that would make ballads."

He feels a bitter kind of humor rise. "You keep mentioning ballads."

"They're a useful benchmark for lies," she says. "When my bards sing of us, they will mention devotion, stolen glances, and how we were destined for one another from the moment we were born." She looks at him, eyes steady. "Don't believe a word of it."

"I won't," he says. "Will you?"

"If I'm lucky," she says. "On nights when it's easier that way."

There's something almost like gentleness in her tone then, quickly tampered down.

A bell chimes in the distance, calling them back toward ceremony.

She stands, smoothing her skirts. "We should go. Your mother will be anxious if we're late."

Elian rises as well. For a moment, neither moves.

"Elian," Isla says, more quietly now. "Whatever else happens, I don't intend to be your enemy."

He believes her.

"I don't intend to be yours," he replies.

She nods once, as if logging that away, and turns toward the garden arch.

As she steps through, Elian follows.

Just before they re-enter the palace proper, he catches sight of Rowan stationed by the column, alert as ever. Rowan's eyes flick from Isla's back to Elian's face, searching.

Elian gives the slightest shake of his head. He doesn't have a word for how he feels. Not yet. Not enough to send ahead like a scout.

Rowan's gaze lingers a heartbeat longer before he straightens, falling in behind.

Isla walks ahead, shoulders squared.

Elian walks between them, pulled in two directions at once.