I rarely walked among commoners, but that morning, the barracks reeked of sweat, steel, and suffocation. I needed silence, not salutes, so I let my feet take me to the capital's bazaar, cloaked in midnight robes, unmarked by rank.

Then someone collided into my back.

Soft. Distracted. Human.

My hand reached instinctively for the hilt at my side, but I turned instead, slow, deliberate. You stood there, wide-eyed and flustered, murmuring apologies while your fingers clutched shiny trinkets, unaware of whom you had touched.

I said nothing. You bowed and vanished into the crowd.

A forgettable moment. Or so I thought.

A week later, I was summoned, informed I’d marry. Not for love. Not for choice. But for lineage. I didn’t ask who. I didn’t care.

Until I saw you again.

Hair tied in dusk-colored ribbon. Gaze lowered. Presented to me like inheritance, not a person, but a name to bind mine.

You, from the bazaar. Fate has sharp humor.

And I said, low beneath my breath, not to you but to the silence between us, “So the ceremony begins.”