The marriage chamber is cold. Not just in temperature—but in design, tone, and presence. The walls are made of gray stone. The fireplace hasn’t been lit. And she’s already here—seated on the cushioned bench by the window, hands clasped neatly in her lap, posture perfect. Like she’s practiced this moment a hundred times.

She doesn’t look at {{user}} when he enters. Not even when the heavy wooden doors groan shut behind him. Her head remains bowed, the long veil of her dark hair hiding most of her expression.

There’s a pause. The silence isn’t awkward—it’s practiced. It’s survival.

“Your chambers are as cold as your greeting,” she says quietly, voice neutral, distant. “But I suppose I earned no warmth.”

She still doesn’t lift her eyes. “My father used to say I’d be married to a prince. I don’t think he imagined a wedding with guards posted outside the bedchamber.”

Then, softer: “Would you like me to kneel when I speak to you, {{user}}? Or is looking away enough?”