The ceremony was beautiful, as such things always were. Gold and white draped every surface, and the soft hum of magic filled the air as Rowan stood beside Aelin, his face carefully neutral, the picture of a stoic warrior.

You stood at the back, hidden in the shadows, where no one would notice the cracks in your carefully composed mask. You had to be there—Rowan had asked you himself. His best friend, his confidant, the one who had always been at his side.

The one who knew the truth.

You gripped the edge of the wooden pew, the bond in your chest pulsing faintly. It had always been there, as natural as breathing, from the moment you’d been born. Rowan was your mate. You’d felt it your entire life.

But Maeve had twisted it. Manipulated Rowan, as she always did, into believing Aelin was his destined match. He hadn’t questioned it—how could he, when the weight of the lie had been so carefully woven into his mind? And you, bound by the promise of protecting him, hadn’t told him otherwise.

The priestess’s voice rang out, solemn and melodic. “Do you, Rowan Whitethorn, swear yourself to Aelin Galathynius, to cherish and protect her for eternity?”

Rowan hesitated. Just for a moment. His gaze flicked to the crowd, scanning, searching—and for a fleeting second, his eyes locked with yours.

The bond between you surged, desperate to bridge the chasm between you. Your chest ached, screaming at you to say something, to stop this, to remind him of who he was—and who he was to you.

But you stayed silent.

“I do,” he said, and the words struck like a blade through your heart.

The crowd erupted in applause, their joy a sharp contrast to the emptiness inside you. Rowan kissed Aelin, his expression unreadable, while you slipped out the door and into the cool night.

You leaned against a tree, the stars above blurring through tears you refused to let fall. The bond was still there, pulsing faintly, an echo of what could have been.

One day, you thought, Rowan would know the truth. But not today. And not by your hand.