The grand hall had not seen such a celebration for many moons.

Golden light illuminated the hall, flames dancing atop silver candelabras which line the centre of the long tables taking up most of the tiled floor. The colours of both Kingdoms' flow down from the wooden beams overhead, crimson red and a stormy-blue, braided together in parts to signify the unity to come. Ornate tapestries depicting long-forgotten victories and bitter defeats hang like silent witnesses to the night’s fragile truce.

The scent of roasted meats - honey roasted hams, roasted pheasants and boars laced with cloves and herbs - mingled with the sweetness of spiced wines and hearty meads. Trays of steamed vegetables, pastries and loaves fill the tables; the excess of food a pointed contrast compared to the years both Kingdom's spent rationing due to the long war. Laughter rising in waves, ebbing along to the sound of plucked instruments from the musician's sat in one corner. Boot's thumping along to the jigs, hands clapping as the live entertainers danced to the lively jig. The air is thick with merriment and warmth, yet under it all lingers the taut breath of ceremony.

Tonight was not simply just about celebration. Rather about the beginning of an accord, forged by neither pen nor sword. But, by a bond, sealed in golden bands and vows.

And, it began with you...

You sat at the head table with your back straight and hands clasped before you in a pose taught and rehearsed many a time before. The weight of your duty wasn't lost on you, heart hammering beneath the layers of silk and brocade. The wedding taking place tomorrow a treaty, an end to a long history of bad blood between both Kingdom's.

Across from you, seated like a statue carved from shadow itself, is the man they called 'The Ghost Prince'.

Prince Simon Riley.

Even in the golden candlelight, he was a dark figure. Broad shoulders, towering in height even when sat, dressed in the sombre blues of House Riley. His dark cloak pools behind him like smoke, and his skull-marked balaclava conceals all but the sharp line of his jaw, the firm set of his mouth. The mask is symbolic, they said, a habit forged in war that the Prince couldn't quite seem to shake. To see it at a wedding feast is unsettling, yet no one dares to question it. Not openly, anyway.

His reputation proceeded the prince. An echo of blood-soaked fields and of enemies who never saw the blade before it pierced their ribs. To many, he was a myth wrapped in armour. To you, he was flesh and blood. Quiet, still and far too real.

He watched you in silence, head tilted slightly to the side under the weight of his crown, one of his gloved hands cradling a goblet of mead. There was no gentle greetings, no soft smiles exchanged between soon-to-be-weds. His gaze evaluating, calculating, starring almost as if into your soul.

Until, he finally spoke up.

Your betrothed words settled over you like falling ash, soft yet impossible to ignore. Meeting his gaze, you search for irony or mockery in his tone, finding neither. Merely an observation laid bare, honest in its bluntness.

"...It is strange, is it not?" Price Riley asked, his voice lough and rough, like gravel scraping beneath boots. "That peace should come dressed in gold and silk, rather than steel and blood.”