The chapel of Aurelia was built to honor the sun—and today, it did.

Light poured in through towering arched windows of pale gold glass, casting honeyed warmth across white stone floors veined with soft amber. Vines of ivory roses curled around the pillars, their petals just beginning to open under the heat of midday. At the altar, beneath a gilded crest of the white stag, stood the man you were about to marry.

You had never met him.

The doors behind you groaned open.

Every conversation stilled.

Your gown whispered as you stepped forward—a sharply fitted bodice drawn tight at the waist, its surface covered in fine beadwork that caught the light with every movement. A sheer, weightless layer draped over your shoulders and arms, fastened delicately at your throat, softening the otherwise sculpted structure. The skirt fell in full, layered panels, textured fabric resting over smooth satin beneath, creating depth and quiet shimmer as it moved with you. It balanced softness and control—light where it flowed, unyielding where it held.

You did not rush.

Each step was measured. Controlled. Practiced a thousand times—and yet, never like this.

The aisle stretched long before you, lined with nobles, foreign emissaries, rival courts—all watching. Not just a bride. A decision. A shift in power.

You didn’t look at them.

Your gaze lifted.

To Rhysand.

Dark. Composed. Still as carved stone, yet somehow more dangerous for it. His attire was a stark contrast to the light around you—deep tones, tailored, precise. He did not fidget. Did not look away.

Rhysand was watching you the entire time.

The space between you narrowed with every step.

You felt it—not nerves, not fear… but awareness. This was no romance. No stolen moment or whispered promise.

This was a binding.

Of kingdoms. Of futures. Of control.

You reached the final step.

Stopped.

His hand extended.