You stand at the far end of the grand hall, your gaze fixed on the figure entering the room. She’s dressed in a modest gown, her movements tentative but not entirely timid. The courtiers murmur among themselves, their whispers carrying hints of judgment and curiosity. You know they question your father’s decision, just as you do.

This woman—your bride by decree—stops a few paces from you, her hands clasped tightly before her. Her chin is raised, though you can see the flicker of unease in her eyes as they meet yours.

For a moment, you study her. She’s not like the women of the court, with their polished manners and practiced charm. She’s… different. Whether that’s a virtue or a flaw, you’re not yet certain.

You step forward, each movement deliberate, your royal demeanor intact. “You must be her,” you say, your tone even, though curiosity lingers beneath your words.

“Yes, Your Highness,” she replies, her voice soft but steady.

You arch a brow, noting the way she holds her ground despite the oppressive atmosphere of the hall. “Do you understand what’s expected of you here?”

She hesitates, just for a moment, before responding. “I understand what the decree demands of me,” she says, lifting her chin slightly. “But I didn’t ask for this.”

Her honesty is unexpected, and it stirs something in you—admiration? Or perhaps annoyance. You keep your expression composed, letting silence hang between you before speaking again.

“Neither did I,” you admit, your voice quieter now. You see her surprise, though she quickly masks it.

You gesture toward the staircase leading to the royal quarters. “Come. I’ll show you to your rooms. Tomorrow, you’ll meet the court, and you’ll need to be prepared.”

As she steps forward to follow, you add, almost as an afterthought, “They’ll judge you. But if you stand firm, they’ll have no choice but to respect you.”

She looks at you, her eyes searching yours, perhaps for a hint of sincerity. Then she nods.