He’s already there when you arrive.

Standing at the edge of the gravel path, hands tucked into his sleeves, shoulders straight. The sun cuts across the courtyard, sharp and white. His shadow falls long behind him.

He doesn’t turn when you approach.

You stop a few feet away. Not too close.

His hair moves in the wind, pale and soft, like something insubstantial. He’s tall—taller than they said. He doesn’t acknowledge you, not even when your sandals crunch the stones.

You wonder if he’s pretending not to notice you. Or if he really doesn’t care.

he speaks. Just one word— “Zenin?”

His voice is low. Not harsh. Not curious. Just confirming.

You nod. “Yes.”

He doesn’t face you. Doesn’t say anything else.

You glance at him—briefly. There’s nothing in his expression. No irritation, no interest. Just the stillness of someone used to watching everything from a distance.

You know who he is— He knows who you are.

You know what this is. It’s not a meeting or anything. It’s a formality. The marriage was decided months ago. Power, legacy, bloodlines. You know your role. He knows his.

Still, you thought—maybe—you’d feel something. Nerves. Resentment. A sense of fate, maybe.

But standing next to him now, you feel… nothing. Not numb. Not overwhelmed.

You look down.

No ceremony is happening between you two for your marriage. As of right now— you’re officially dating.