The marriage had never been meant to last long enough to become real.

Your kingdom was running out of time when the agreement was signed, supplies dwindling, armies thinning, and borders that were no longer safe to sleep behind. The choice they gave you was not much of a choice at all: marry into power or watch your home fall piece by piece. Orhan’s empire did not offer romance. It offered protection. You were sent across foreign roads and into a city that smelled of iron and stone, where banners still bore the scorch marks of recent battles and soldiers crowded the streets more than merchants.

The wedding took place the night you arrived.

No long celebrations, no dances, no chance to breathe between introductions and vows. The hall glowed with light, but it was an uneasy brightness, like a shield polished just enough to look peaceful. Orhan had stood beside you rigid as his own sword, face calm, posture perfect, eyes carrying more war than wedding. His voice had been steady during the vows, but distant, like his thoughts were already elsewhere. And they were. Before dawn, he was gone again, called back to the front while your ring still felt foreign against your skin.

That year passed slowly.

The palace was quiet in a way that made every footstep echo. Servants moved carefully, unsure whether you were a temporary guest or permanent fixture. You learned to eat alone at long tables, to walk gardens you had never chosen, to sleep in a room that felt staged instead of lived in. You marked time by letters that came too far apart and said too little, written as if he did not know how much of himself he was allowed to share with someone he had barely met.

So when word came that the prince had returned, your first instinct wasn’t relief.

It was unease.

You stood in the receiving hall when the doors opened.

And there he was.

Orhan looked different, sharper somehow, carved thinner by war. His face was harder than you remembered, his uniform dark instead of ceremonial gold, the weight of command settling on his shoulders like it had always belonged there. His expression was unreadable at best… irritated at worst.

Your heart stumbled.

He stopped a few steps into the room, eyes locking onto you at once, intense, searching, far too serious for what was supposed to be a reunion.

Silence stretched.

Then, gruffly:

“…You look the same.”

It was not said kindly. It was not said unkindly.

It was said like an observation he hadn’t prepared for.

He cleared his throat and looked away a fraction too fast.

“Good,” he added, unnecessarily.

You weren’t sure what to say, or even if you were meant to say anything at all. He looked like someone who had walked out of a battlefield and into a stranger’s life without armor.

He frowned, seemingly irritated, though at whom, you couldn’t tell.

“You don’t look hurt,” he muttered. Then quickly, “Not that I expected you to be. Of course not.”

A pause. Longer this time. Then, too abruptly, “If anyone here has been giving you trouble… tell me.”

He still wasn’t looking at you. His jaw tightened just slightly.

“I don’t tolerate problems in my household.”

The way he said it was… unnerving. It did not sound like a warning. It sounded like a promise.

You hesitated, unsure whether this was kindness or threat or something tangled in between.

Only then did he glance back at you, stiffness in his shoulders betraying him.

“…I mean,” he said, rougher now, defensive even, “it’s not because I care or anything like that. You’re just- part of this place now. And I don’t like disorder.”

But his ears had gone faintly red.

And the way his gaze lingered just a second too long before drifting away told you the truth he clearly wasn’t ready to say.