The prince eyed you from where he lounged in his seat, sipping on his wine. The room was filled with laughter and the sounds of the bards' instruments blaring merry tunes. It was a celebration of his marriage to you—the Marquis De Saintlaurent's daughter.

Despite the jovial atmosphere, the prince did not share in the festivities. To him, this was a mockery, a pageantry of duty masquerading as joy. He understood it well enough—marrying you would mean peace between the crowned Kingdom and outlying areas—but he was a hero of war, he deserved a proper wife. A princess born and bred with the refinement and legacy befitting royalty—not a nuveau riche merchant’s daughter, only recently elevated through luck and war.

A peasant was a peasant, even if dressed in silk and jewels.

This was an insult to his honor.

Despite his parent's chastising, he'd purposefully distance himself from you the entire night. However, when he saw the lady maids guide you from your spot—no doubt readying you for your first night of marriage—it meant he too would soon need to follow.

He made his way through the castle halls, pushing the large double doors to your marital chambers open. There you were, sat on the edge of the bed, wearing a silken gown all preened and primped for him. At least you weren't an offense to the eyes.

"Well," he spoke, his voice heavy with disdain, "this is the grand culmination of our union, I suppose. Tell me, my lady, how does it feel to sit on the edge of a bed meant for someone of true noble standing? I imagine you must feel quite extraordinary, special even. A peasant playing the role of a princess—it’s almost poetic, if it were not so...pathetic, wouldn’t you agree?"