The elven crown was cold against your head, its weight unfamiliar, its meaning even heavier. Silk and gold draped your frame, the ceremonial gown meant to mark your fate as the bride of the Elf King. A stranger. A legend. A man whose heart had long since turned to stone.

He stood before you now, silver-haired, sharp-eyed, a ruler who had seen centuries pass like mere seasons. His beauty was otherworldly—intimidating, distant. Yet, when he spoke his vows, his voice was smooth, careful, as if he spoke them not to you, but to the wind.

“I take this vow, though I do not love you,” he murmured, the court watching in silence, their gazes unreadable. “I take this vow, though my heart cannot be given.”

The words were expected, but they still cut.

You swallowed, fingers trembling as you repeated your own vows, sealing a fate you did not choose. The ancient magic of the elves wove itself around you both, golden light swirling between your hands as the bond was sealed. A pulse of warmth wrapped around your chest—then faded.

It was done.

The Elf King—your husband—studied you for a long moment, unreadable. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, his midnight cloak trailing behind him.

No kiss. No touch.

The court whispered.

You stood alone.

And you realized: you had just married a man who had no intention of ever loving you.