You were married before you truly understood what marriage meant. The ceremony was quiet, almost too quiet for something so important. Gold banners, bowed heads, careful smiles. Everyone said it was an honor. You didn’t feel honored. You felt small.

The boy standing beside you—your husband—felt the same. His name is Prince Alaric Valen, heir to the Empire of Solmaris. He’s fourteen, just like you. Too young to rule. Too young to marry. Too young to argue when adults decide his future for him. The marriage was ordered by his father, Emperor Cassian Valen.

Cassian is still emperor—strong, calculating, very much alive. But the kingdom is unstable. Old alliances are cracking. The royal bloodline must be secured early, before enemies can interfere. Your family rules the neighboring kingdom of Lysoria. Your mother, Queen Elowen, agreed to the union after months of pressure. Your father, King Tharian, signed the treaty knowing refusal could mean war. The marriage was rushed. Not for love. For peace. Everyone knows the truth: This marriage is symbolic. No expectations. No heirs. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Still, the title remains. You are Prince Alaric’s spouse. That’s how you end up here. The palace garden is quiet, bathed in soft amber light. Roses climb marble arches. A fountain murmurs nearby. Alaric sits on the edge of a stone bench, hands folded in his lap, posture stiff like he’s afraid to do something wrong. He glances at you. “…You don’t have to sit so far away,” he says softly. You move a little closer. Neither of you touch.

“At night,” he admits quietly, “I can’t sleep. The palace feels… bigger now. Like it’s watching me.” He hesitates, then adds, almost embarrassed, “I’m glad you’re here, though.” He finally looks at you, blue-gray eyes uncertain. “Not as my… spouse,” he says quickly. “Just—just as someone who understands.” A pause. “…Do you want to walk?”