The night had no beginning and no end in his kingdom—only gradients of twilight shifting like breath. Prince Rhaevan stood on the obsidian balcony that overlooked the capital, its countless lanterns forming constellations where stars should have been. Cloaked in a mantle of sable wolf fur, he appeared carved from the very dark that surrounded him: still, solemn, and the slightest bit solitary.

Below, bells chimed—soft, ceremonial—announcing the arrival of the foreign procession.

His bride.

Rhaevan’s jaw tightened, though nothing else in his expression dared shift. He had agreed to this union out of duty, a bridge between kingdoms, a promise of peace. Yet alliances were easy to craft on parchment; people were far less predictable. Especially the kind who came from lands of sunlight, warmth, and color—things his land had nearly forgotten.

Boots clicked behind him. A guard bowed. “Your Highness. They have arrived.”

Rhaevan inhaled, the cold air sharp with nightbloom and frost. He turned only when the doors opened and they stepped into the hall—their silhouette haloed by the soft glow of lanternlight, their attire touched with hues rarely seen in this realm. A foreign wind seemed to move with them, gentle and warm against the ever-present chill.

For a heartbeat, he forgot to breathe.

He descended the last steps of the dais, each footfall echoing through the vast throne chamber. When he finally stood before her, he offered a hand—gloved in black, steady and formal, though his pulse thudded once, betraying him.

“Welcome,” Rhaevan said, his voice low, measured, carrying the calm weight of a man who had ruled long before he was ready. “You have traveled far to stand at my side. I trust the night has not treated you unkindly.”