He did not come to see me after that.

Zarek noticed.

The mirrors darkened when Edric passed through certain halls. The golden butterflies appeared more frequently when I was irritated… or bored… or aware of being watched incorrectly.

Zarek did not intervene.

He did not need to.

Edric’s distance grew naturally after that — careful, deliberate, self-protective. Rosaline remained his refuge. She asked nothing of him that challenged his sense of control.

The court noticed the shift before they named it.

Whispers turned into conversations. Conversations hardened into assumptions. When they began speaking openly of futures — of unions and inevitabilities — I was not surprised by the direction they leaned.

I had already felt the fault line.

Rosaline allowed herself to be pleased.

The chamber smelled of rosewater and polished wood, sunlight filtering through silk screens in a way that softened everything it touched. That was important. Presentation mattered. Especially today.

“Careful,” she said lightly, fingers lifting to adjust the fall of her sleeve. “That clasp is older than you are.”

The maid froze.

“I—I’m sorry, Your Highness. I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” Rosaline replied, smiling. She always smiled first. “That’s why I warned you.”

The girl’s hands trembled as she resumed fastening the ornament into Rosaline’s hair — a delicate piece of vermilion gold, chosen not for meaning but for visibility. It caught the light beautifully.

Too beautifully, perhaps.

The maid inhaled, steadied herself, and placed it.

Rosaline tilted her head, considering her reflection.

“No,” she said gently. “That angle is wrong.”

“I can fix it,” the maid said quickly. “I’ll just—”

“Don’t,” Rosaline interrupted, her voice still warm. “You’ve already strained it once.”

She turned slightly, allowing the ornament to slip loose and fall.

It struck the floor and shattered.

The maid dropped to her knees at once, color draining from her face. “Please—Your Highness—I’ll replace it—I’ll—”

Rosaline watched her for a moment.

Then she sighed, as though disappointed by the inconvenience.

“It was an heirloom,” she said softly. “One of a matched set.”

The maid’s breath hitched.

“But,” Rosaline continued, lifting her chin as another attendant stepped forward to present a different piece, “mistakes happen. I’m sure you’ll find a way to make it right.”

The girl nodded frantically, tears slipping free as she gathered the broken fragments with shaking hands.

Rosaline did not look back.

She rose when the final adjustment was made, posture flawless, expression serene.

Today was about harmony.

About futures aligning as they should.

She had been chosen.

Everyone always commented on how Rosaline smelled heavenly.

They said it with reverence, as though fragrance were proof of virtue. As though sweetness, when cultivated carefully enough, could pass for divinity.

I never understood the comparison.

To me, she smelled like dried flowers left too long in the sun. Preserved. Arranged. Slightly stale beneath the perfume meant to disguise it.

At the time, I imagined Heaven would smell different.

Not like something cultivated in abundance, trimmed and gathered for display… but like ozone before a storm. Like spun sugar dissolving on the tongue. Like something sharp and bright and impossible to bottle.

Rosaline smelled pleasant.

Heaven, I suspected, would not.

The court assembled in full.

This time, there was no incense meant to ward off fear. No basin uncovered. No whispers of omens. Everything was bright. Orderly. Certain.

Edric stood at the Emperor’s right, composed, immaculate, the picture of a crown prince stepping into destiny. Rosaline took her place beside him, head bowed just enough to signal humility… never submission.

Across the hall, Seraphae stood apart.

As she always had.

The Herald’s voice rang clear across the High Court, each word measured, practiced, impossible to mistake for mercy.

“By decree of the Emperor, Son of Heaven, Bearer of the Gilded Accord, Sovereign of the United Empire and Keeper of Its Mandate—

Let it be known that, in recognition of harmony between realms,

and in service to the enduring stability of the Empire,

Crown Prince Edric of Ironreach

shall enter into formal betrothal with

Her Royal Highness Princess Rosaline of Vermyre.

This union is ordained to strengthen the bond between Ironreach and Vermyre,

to affirm loyalty sworn beneath the Gilded Accord,

and to ensure continuity of governance unmarred by division.

The betrothal shall take effect immediately upon this announcement.

Preparations for the marriage rites shall commence without delay.

Let this union stand as testament to unity chosen over discord,

order preserved over uncertainty,

and harmony upheld for the good of all realms.”**

The scroll was lifted.

The seal pressed into crimson wax glinted beneath the hall’s lights — final, unquestionable.

“So decreed.”

Applause followed. Polite. Relieved.

Rosaline lifted her gaze at precisely the right moment, meeting Edric’s eyes with practiced warmth. He smiled back — grateful, steady, unchallenged.

It looked perfect.

Edric stepped forward when summoned.

The movement felt automatic, rehearsed into his bones long before he had been asked whether he wished to comply. He knelt where protocol demanded, head bowed, hands folded neatly before him.

The decree was presented.

He did not read it.

He did not need to.

Every word had already been spoken aloud, each syllable settling into place like a weight he was relieved to stop carrying. When he accepted the scroll, the wax was still warm.

Relief came first.

That surprised him.

It slipped through his chest quietly, loosening something he had been holding too tightly for too long. The future — suddenly named, suddenly orderly — no longer pressed against him from all sides.

This was safe.

Predictable.

Chosen for him, so he would not have to choose.

He rose when instructed and turned, meeting Rosaline’s gaze as the court expected him to. Her expression was serene, composed, perfectly suited to the moment. When she smiled, it was with warmth that asked nothing further of him.

Applause followed.

Polite. Approving. Certain.

Edric inclined his head, just enough to signal gratitude, just enough to appear pleased. He did not look across the hall.

He did not need to.

Somewhere beneath the formality, beneath the applause and approval, a faint unease stirred — quickly dismissed, easily smothered by the comfort of inevitability.

He told himself that harmony felt like this.

Zarek observed through the mirror without interest in the ceremony itself.

Mortals loved spectacle. Loved the sound of certainty spoken aloud, as if repetition made it true.

His attention lingered instead on the small things.

The way Rosaline’s smile never reached her eyes.

The way Edric exhaled when the words were spoken, tension leaving him all at once.

The way Seraphae did not react at all.

There it is, Zarek thought.

The choice made from fear.

He felt the echo of the court’s relief ripple outward, thin and brittle as glass.

Rosaline believed she had won something.

Edric believed he had been spared.

Both were wrong.

Zarek’s gaze returned to Seraphae — calm, radiant, unbowed.

They have chosen ornament over foundation, he judged coolly.

Containment over sovereignty.

The mirror dimmed slightly, as if even it found the scene distasteful.

Very well, Zarek thought.

Let them have their harmony.

He turned away before the applause ended.

There were other preparations to be made.