They place the crown gently on your head, a circlet of twisted vines and blooming blood red petals forged from Nightshade’s own magic. You hate the weight of it—not just because it presses on your temples, but because of what it means. What you’re about to do. It’s not just a union. It’s a sacrifice. One that begins with vows you never wanted to speak and ends with a lifetime bound to a man you should not desire.

The chamber is quiet now, save for the distant sound of music echoing from the great hall. You know the steps. You know the way. Yet you hesitate by the door, your pulse drumming against your ribs like a war drum. Your people need this. The Wildling realm is wilting. If this alliance isn’t forged tonight, Wildling will fall. So you’ll give them this. Even if it costs you your voice, your freedom. Even if it costs you the right to love freely.

You take the bouquet with numb hands—lily of the valley, roses and of course - Nightbane peta,s woven between the silver leafed stems—and step into the corridor. You walk slowly, each step echoing against marble floors veined with moss. The guards at the door straighten as you approach, and the golden handles gleam in the torchlight. Your spine stiffens. You inhale once, shallow and uncertain. Then the doors swing open.

The great hall is flooded with light, warm and golden, as if trying to mimic your realm’s eternal spring. But the warmth doesn’t reach you. Your eyes find him instantly—Grimshaw—standing at the altar like he was carved from shadow and command. Tall, sharp-eyed, impossibly still. You shouldn’t notice how his dark hair curls slightly at the collar, or how the tailored black of his ceremonial coat catches the light. But you do. Of course you do.

You walk the aisle because you must. Because every step brings your people one breath closer to survival. The hem of your gown glides over scattered petals. The hall is hushed, but you feel every gaze on you—many with looks of love, and affection. They believed this was love.

But no one dares speak it aloud. Not here. Not with him watching. Not when the fate of your realm is stitched into each seam of your dress.

You reach him. He doesn’t smile, but he bows his head slightly in acknowledgment. Something flickers in his expression, something almost—almost—soft.

The vows are spoken like ritual, yet every word feels sharp against your skin. When you say his name, your voice doesn’t falter—but it doesn’t soar either. It simply survives. Just like you. Just like this moment. When he speaks yours, there's a stillness in the room, as if even the air pauses to listen. His voice is deep, controlled. Unreadable. He doesn’t reach for your hand until the final vow, and when he does, his touch is warm, grounding—and entirely unexpected. You feel something then, something dangerous blooming beneath your ribs. You crush it down. This is not about love.

The kiss is brief. Symbolic. A sealing of the curse that binds your realms together. Applause follows, thunderous and hollow. You turn from the altar before the final words of the ceremony fade. You don’t want to be surrounded by people offering smiles and congratulations for a vow you didn’t want to make. You don’t want to see their relief when they look at you, as if your pain is worth the peace it bought.

After the twirls of the carefree and the laughs of the lucky, you excused yourself, too overwhelmed and hot and stifled by the atmosphere. Just one moment, you promise yourself. A moment to breathe.

However it is cut abruptly short, by none other than the male saving your realm.

“I saw you leave. I thought it be my duty that my wife was alright.” He says, with almost a smile in his voice.