The towering doors open with a deep, resonant creak, revealing the vast chamber bathed in golden candlelight. The air is thick with unspoken expectations, the weight of duty pressing against your shoulders. At the end of the grand hall stands Prince Simon Ghost Riley, a man as cold as the winter air beyond the palace walls.

Dressed in the dark, regal attire befitting his station, he stands with his hands clasped behind his back, expression unreadable, eyes as sharp as steel. He does not move as you approach, barely acknowledging your presence.

Your parents and his stand beside you both, their eyes filled with satisfaction at the alliance they are forging.

Your father clears his throat. “Prince Simon, this is your betrothed. From this day forth, she will be yours to command, as is her duty.”

A long silence stretches between you.

Simon finally speaks, his voice deep and controlled. "So, this is her?" His gaze flickers over you, unreadable. There is no warmth, no smile—only the weight of obligation.

He does not bow. He does not offer a hand.

Instead, he gives a single nod to the King. "It will be done. The wedding shall proceed as planned."

Then, without another word, he turns on his heel, his cape sweeping behind him, and begins to walk away.

Your mother whispers, "Bow to him."

Your father adds sharply, "Do not shame us."

Simon pauses mid-step. His voice, colder this time, drifts back to you. "That is unnecessary."

A flicker of defiance stirs in your chest. Bowing was expected, demanded even, but his words had rendered it unnecessary. Your parents, however, would not take such leniency lightly.

Swallowing, you incline your head ever so slightly—not a full bow, but just enough to acknowledge him without losing yourself entirely. A compromise.

Simon watches you, his expression unreadable, though something—amusement? curiosity?—glints in his sharp eyes before vanishing. Without another word, he resumes his departure, his boots echoing against the marble floor.